


and never the twain shall meet

by tavrincallas



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tavrincallas/pseuds/tavrincallas
Summary: Dejan is a hacker recruited by Mo, a top MI6 handler who is secretly investigating corruption among the high-ranking officers. Shenanigans ensue. A spy!AU loosely based on Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: now with a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/64wX27lfEExsrVBiJ28A4R?si=qesvKkBgQhy73-Mxf36UnQ) for a full immersive experience!

 

> _OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,_  
> ---  
> _Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;_  
> ---  
> _But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,_  
> _When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!_  
>   
>  
> 
>  

\-- The Ballad of East and West, Rudyard Kipling

 

* * *

 

Dejan doesn’t even panic when the Denver Police Department car pulls up in front of his house.

He’s been through this too many times, in Phoenix, in LA, in Illinois. Dejan steels his gaze at the detective when he’s told that he’s under arrest – _what else is new,_ he thinks.

He is only even mildly annoyed when he is marched into the interrogation roughly, handcuffed and treated like a total-piece-of-garbage, because he’s used to this – being a foreigner, a refugee, with a tinge of an unplaceable European accent – they all treat him like he’s a tourist, like he doesn’t understand a word of English.

But when the words ‘first-degree-murder’ enters the conversation, Dejan stands up and refuses to take further abuse from these smug bastards. “Sit down, asshat. We ain’t finished with you yet,” one of them chuckles.

“I didn’t kill anybody!”

“That’s what they all say,” comes a chirp from a taller, leaner detective from the other end of the room.

 _Really. If I’d killed anyone I would have remembered,_ Dejan thinks wryly.

“What are you smirking about, asshat? Are you not sorry for the guy you’ve killed?”

_Fuck this shit._

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Dejan insists.

“Oh yeah? What were you doing at 8.30 pm on Sunday night?”

Dejan exhales sharply. “I was at home. Watching reruns of Power Rangers.”

“Hah,” the tall detective snorts from the back. The shorter, pot-bellied cop slams his fists down on the table, spilling the cheap, cold coffee onto Dejan’s lap. “Don’t play with me, kid. You think you’re clever, but you’re not.”

“Did you or did you not go to the Starlight Grocery Shop at 8.15 pm that night?” the tall detective asks, gentler this time. It is pretty obvious that he’s supposed to play the ‘good cop’ role, and the pot-bellied detective is the ‘bad cop’.

Dejan racks his brain – he’d run out of tofu, and he was craving for soy milk – and he’d gone to the shop just to buy those two things, before returning home and watched Power Rangers on TV. “I did.”

“Did you or did you not stab Mr Son Heung-Min three times – in the front of his chest, before leaving him alone to his death, at 8.30 pm?”

_What the fuck are you going on about?_

“No,” Dejan says vehemently. He remembers paying Mr Son with the exact change – _3 dollars and 75 cents_ – at the counter, before smiling at the young Korean man, and left the shop at 8.25 pm.

The tall detective lets out a high-pitched, annoying laugh that actually makes Dejan feels murderous, even if he has no intentions of doing so at the beginning. He opens up a laptop in front of him, and plays a grainy CCTV video for Dejan to watch.

 _There I am,_ Dejan thinks, as he watches himself on the laptop, paying for his tofu and soy milk at the counter— talking to Mr Son.

And then there’s Dejan pulling a knife from inside his hoodie, before reaching across the counter to stab Mr Son – once, twice, _thrice._

The pot-bellied cop lets out a self-satisfied ‘tut’.

Dejan blinks dumbly.

“I need a lawyer,” he says.

 

* * *

 

The man that appears in front of him three hours later looks more like a young Arabian prince than a lawyer, if not for the haphazard way his curly hair is sticking out from his head. He is sharply dressed— in a tie, a three-piece-suit and a pair of shiny Oxfords – but Dejan still has trouble believing that this is his lawyer.

“I’m not a lawyer,” the man says—as if he’s reading Dejan’s thoughts, before taking a seat opposite Dejan across the table. From his physical appearance and his accent, Dejan guesses that the man who’s come to see him in the interrogation room has come from somewhere in the Middle East – but beyond that Dejan is clueless.  

Dejan continues to stare crudely.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he insists. “If you’re not a lawyer, what is the point of you being here?”

The man ignores him. “The video suggests otherwise, Mr Lovren. And you’re in a lot of trouble. We’re looking at a life sentence. It’s not something that you’d want, is it?”

“But I didn’t do it!” Dejan raises his voice in frustration – but the man in front of him doesn’t budge one inch. He remains unfazed, expressionless.

“You, of all people, should know that it really doesn’t matter much – not when one looks at your _records,”_ the Middle-Eastern man frowns. “It’s not pretty.”

Panic starts to bubble in Dejan’s gut. He knows the man isn’t talking about his records of petty crimes, of stealing cigarettes when he was 16, or selling stolen small electronic parts a year ago. “Those records are sealed. No one is supposed to know about them.”

“You’re a _hacker,_ Mr Lovren,” the man says pointedly. “When a twelve-year-old boy hacks into the MI6 database, we _remember._ ”

“I was 11,” Dejan corrects the man with a deadpan stare. He remembers. He was still living in Munich at that time, with his aunt, after his parents died. Dejan was bored – so he hacked into the MI6 database—because that was what kids do when they get bored, right? After much fuss that happened thereafter— with men in suits and earpieces knocking at his aunt’s door over the next few months, his aunt had to sign a few papers, and Dejan was eventually sent for adoption in America; in this dumpster of a state called Colorado. 

The man shrugs apathetically— until bells of alarm start pinging in Dejan’s ears. “Wait. _MI6?_ You mean _you—_?” Dejan asks, letting the question hang uneasily in the air. “Who the fuck are you, really?”

The man’s smile is suddenly too bright, and too blinding at the same time.

“I’m the guy who can get you out of here, Mr Lovren.”

 

* * *

 

Dejan steps out of the police station into the night, into the mild Colorado air— following in the other man’s footsteps, eyeing him warily. “I don’t even know your name,” he hollers from behind.

“Ibis,” the man replies unflappably, without even turning back.

“Is that even your real name?”

‘Ibis’ stops in his tracks, before turning to face Dejan. There is a deep frown on his face— before he gives Dejan a long, hard glare, effectively shutting Dejan up. They resume walking, when eventually they reach where the Ibis has parked. Dejan thinks he probably has died and gone to heaven, because the Ibis’s car is a fucking Porsche 911 – a vintage 1964 model no less – white, sleek and shiny.

“Are you James Bond or something? Because you sure don’t look like one,” Dejan exclaims, as he continues to admire the piece of machinery. “Or…” Dejan begins, before the Ibis stops him by putting one hand up.

“If you are going to say terrorist, please desist from making such racist remarks,” the Ibis glares at him.

Dejan looks down at the pavement apologetically – but he only managed one full second of silence before the urge to speak begins to rise again. “Ibis – that’s some Egyptian sacred bird, no? You Egyptian or something? How did the MI6 recruit you?”

The Ibis dumps Dejan’s bags into the back of the car and continues to ignore him. He is opening the driver’s seat door of the car, and Dejan sees this as a chance to steal the vehicle and get away. He tries to grab the Ibis’s collar to pull him away from the car – thinking that he’s the taller, bigger man and will have the physical advantage in this fight.

_Bad idea._

The Ibis slips away from his grasp— like water, gives him a one-two jab in the abdomen, a hook under his jaw. He twirls smoothly and kicks Dejan sharply in the chest, a movement so swift that Dejan’s brain couldn’t even register it happening. Dejan tries to stand up— to run away, but his feet are wobbly, his head spinning. When Dejan finally manages to focus his vision, the Ibis is looking at him expressionlessly— and maybe with a touch of pity, but even then Dejan knows what he is thinking:

_I am unimpressed by your antics._

“There’s a reason why I’m in the MI6 and you’re _not_ , Mr Lovren,” the Ibis says. “Not yet, anyway.”

Dejan vaguely wonders what he means by that, before he is stunned by another sharp pinch to his gut.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in a plane – a private plane, judging from the lavished interior, and conveniently handcuffed to the seat. His jaw throbs – a dull ache in his temples, and every time he breathes, he thinks his stomach is going to burst. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the Ibis raising an eyebrow at him. He’s taken off his suit, loosened his tie and collar, rolled up his sleeves to his forearms.

“Good morning, Dejan,” Ibis says.

“Fuck you.”

The slight upward curve of the Ibis’s lips is subtle, but not unnoticeable, before catching himself and abruptly gritting his teeth. “Not until we get down to the _real_ agenda,” he replies. Dejan couldn’t help staring at the almost-smile on the Ibis’s lips and wonders if he’s holding back.

“I thought you were getting me out of prison. So why am I still handcuffed?”

“Precautionary measures, Dejan. I don’t appreciate someone biting at the hand of his rescuer.”

Dejan grits his own teeth in return. So yes, he has tried to run away—because he has underestimated the Ibis, and now he’s paid the price. “So where are we going?” He tries to look out the window – all he sees are clouds, fluffy and cottony.

“A place where you will learn some manners,” Ibis says airily, as if he doesn’t care. He lifts his chin up slightly, indicating that there is a tray full of food for Dejan in front of him. “Please have something to eat,” he tells Dejan – now filled with all politeness and decency. “You’ll need it later.”

Dejan doesn’t even ask why he has to eat it, or why he’ll need it later – he is starving, but his right hand is still handcuffed to the armrest. “How the hell am I supposed to eat when I’m cuffed to this seat?”

“You still have your left hand, don’t you? You can use it, yes?” Ibis retorts.

Dejan huffs and lifts off the cover of the tray.

Steak, mashed potatoes, gravy with some veg at the sides.

His stomach makes an ugly high-pitched sound, earning a deep chuckle from Ibis as a response. Dejan eats with fervour, like he hasn’t eaten in a month – and come to think of it, his diet has consisted of fried chicken and soda for the last week or so. _This—_ this is so ridiculously fancy that his mind can’t compute how the meat seems to melt on his tongue as he chews on it.

The Ibis comes up to him with a bottle of _Beaujolais Nouveau_ , and pours Dejan a glass. “Authentically produced in Lyon,” Ibis tells Dejan, before offering it to him. “Go on, have a sip,” he says.

Dejan does, and it tastes exquisite. He drinks a glass, then a second— like a man who has been living in drought for decades. He’s not a connoisseur, but the wine might be the subtlest, and yet most fulfilling alcoholic beverage he’s ever drank in his life. Ibis watches him intently— and Dejan finds it strange that the Ibis doesn’t drink a drop of the wine at all. _Maybe because he’s a Muslim,_ Dejan thinks – and gulps each drop as if it will be his last. Seconds later, Dejan notices how his breathing has become more laboured, his eyelids drooping— as drowsiness begins to wash over him.

_Fuck._

“You spiked the fucking wine, didn’t you?” Dejan tries to say, but the words come up mumbling and unintelligible.

“Sorry, Dejan,” the Ibis says – and it is the last thing Dejan remembers hearing before passing out completely.

 

* * *

 

The next time Dejan wakes, he is in a windowless cubicle; sleeping on a futon on the floor—not even a bed, and his whole body aches. There is a latrine at the corner of the small, sad rectangular space – and everything is monochrome: black, grey, silver, white. There is a metal door with a small peeping hole at the end of the room, and Dejan thumps at it wildly to get someone’s attention.

“Hey! Hey! Is anybody out there?” he screams, as he tries to peer out of the peephole. “Get me out of here, you bastards! Where the hell are you?” he shouts again. “Ibis?”

There is no response— except for the sad echoes of his voice. He could see a darkened corridor; but no one is guarding his door. He stops knocking after a while, his fists reddened and hurting from banging at the door relentlessly. Dejan backs off, exhausted, and looks at the door instead. He studies the door mechanism, any hinges, any lock he could pick, codes he could break.

There is nothing. The door is impenetrable.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes he wakes up and there will be a tray of food by his feet— and when Dejan says food, he means tasteless porridge, and a tall glass of water. Nothing else. He wonders who might have entered and placed the tray there, and how Dejan could not have noticed.

When Dejan agrees to be freed by Ibis, he doesn’t expect to be locked in this cubicle, without any chance of escape – he doesn’t even know how long he has been here. Maybe days, weeks? He doesn’t even know if the meals that he had were indicative of time; if they were meant to be daily meals or breakfast and supper – Dejan is fully disorientated to time and place, unable to tell night from day. The only light source is the fluorescent lights from the ceiling, switched on for twenty-four hours of the day. He sees a blinking red light near one of the lamps – and Dejan realizes that it is a surveillance camera.

Watching his every move, every reaction, every breakdown.

 _That little fucker, Ibis,_ Dejan thinks. _He’s watching me._

“Are you enjoying the show, Ibis?” Dejan bursts, yelling at the camera angrily. “You like watching me take a piss, take a dump in this shithole?” Dejan hasn’t showered— in days, probably weeks. He hasn’t changed his clothes, and he’s aware that he stinks. He hasn’t shaved, his hair is getting longer – but he knows that the Ibis isn’t stupid to hand him a razor anytime soon.

 

* * *

 

If he’s not getting meals in trays, Dejan receives packed MREs – _Meals, Ready-to-Eat_ – a self-contained, lightweight packaged meal usually used by the US military as individual field rations – podded down to him through a filtered tube system, straight into his cubicle. The proper food trays don’t come for days on end, and Dejan has to survive off those MREs, to stop him from starving.

He waits, and waits for the next food tray– and when he manages to catch them, it’s still porridge and a glass of water. He tries to get their attention through the peephole – begs them to tell him where he is, what kind of fucked-up facility this is, but they keep mum. It’s different people each time, and Dejan remembers, or he would have recognized a familiar face. After a while they all look similar, in their white uniforms and blank faces. Each one would never speak, would ignore his cries and questions, would pretend that they couldn’t see or hear Dejan. After slipping the tray, they would walk away—never to be seen again.

Dejan has made it a point to wait by the door – in case someone comes, in case someone would cave in and respond to him. He thumps again at the door, out of frustration. He’s going nuts.

And then—

He hears someone talking down the corridor – a male voice, but not the Ibis’s. Dejan strains to hear the voice— speaking in a language that he recognizes, but doesn’t understand.

_French._

Still, it is the first human voice he’s heard in – Dejan doesn’t even know for how long.

Dejan sees his shadow first, then he sees the man. He is talking into his earpiece – in heavily accented French. The man is perhaps slightly shorter than Dejan—but wears a fancier suit than the Ibis’s. Dejan could tell that he’s not a guard—he looks important, powerful. Someone who could get Dejan out of here.

The man stops right in front of Dejan’s door, peering through the peephole. Dejan returns his intrepid stare, squints to get a proper look.

“Hullo, Mr Lovren,” the man says, with a mirthless smile. He has a distinct accent – Geordie, maybe?  

“Who are you?” Dejan’s mouth feels dry, probably his breath stinks, too. He doesn’t care. This is the first time he has been addressed to since what feels like forever.

“My name is Jordan Henderson,” the man introduces himself— the facile smile still plastered on his face.

“Where is he? Where is that son of a bitch? I need to talk to him,” Dejan says furiously.

Henderson pretends not to know who Dejan is talking about. “Who?”

“Ibis,” Dejan spits. It’s the only thought that has kept him sane throughout his entire confinement so far. Dejan wants to know the fucker’s real name, so that he could hack into his bank accounts and screw him over. He wants to snap Ibis’s neck in two. He wants to see emotion in Ibis’s perpetually impassive face, be it anger, frustration, pain, genuine mirth – _anything._

“You’re working for him, aren’t you?” Dejan asks Henderson.

The man beyond the door tuts and shakes his head. “On the contrary, Mr Lovren,” Henderson negates him. “He works for me.”

Dejan draws in a sharp breath.

“Well—,” Henderson shrugs, “—we all work for the same organisation— but technically I’m _his_ boss.”

“So you’re behind all this,” Dejan says accusingly.

“No, Ibis is _still_ behind all this. I’m just—,” Henderson clicks his tongue, _“—supervising_ ,” he continues impishly. “What he does with you— it’s up to _him_.”

The tips of Dejan’s ears are going to burn – he could feel anger rising up within him again, but he manages to control himself. “Then,” he exhales heavily, “—what are you doing here?”

“Like I said,” Henderson looks at Dejan as if he’s an idiot. “I’m supervising.”

“How long have I been here?”

“A week.”

Dejan tries not to show his surprise. He genuinely thinks it has been longer.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you. But I’d rather not, since you’re Ibis’s _property._ ”

Dejan has had enough of this. “I’m not _anyone’s_ property, let alone him!” he bangs at the door; livid.

“I can see why he’s been eyeing you for a long time, Mr Lovren. You have yet to impress me with your other skills, though,” Henderson retorts cryptically.

“What skills?” Dejan asks, before Henderson shrugs and walks away. “Wait, _what_ skills?” Dejan repeats the question, but the only reply that he gets is the ugly sounds of Henderson’s brogues tapping against the floor, fading into the distance.

 

* * *

 

There is nothing left to do but wait.

Dejan waits and waits, until the first delivery is sent down to him through the pod system. Books to learn French, Spanish and Italian. Dictionaries. Blank papers and a blunt 2B pencil. A little note in an elegant handwriting, which reads, ‘ _You have one week. Don’t disappoint me – Ibis.’_

 _What the hell does he want me to do,_ Dejan wonders. _Learn three languages in a week?_

 

* * *

 

Dejan thinks that it might be the end of the week already, when another delivery comes through.

 _Mein Kampf. Il Principe_. Works by Voltaire, Foucault and Rousseau. Neruda and Rilke’s poems, untranslated. A note in Ibis’s hand – “ _For bedtime reading_ ,” it reads.

 _I hate you,_ Dejan thinks.

He barely reads at home – _at all_ , save for his towering collection of Batman comics – so what makes Ibis think that Dejan would read these high-brow literature works, in languages that he’s scarcely learnt?

He turns to the surveillance camera, frowning at the blinking red light. He gives Ibis the finger— if the little fucker happens to be watching. Dejan feels slightly smug with himself, despite the juvenile gesture.

Two hours later, he gets bored – and ends up leafing through the first page of _Il Principe,_ anyway.

 

* * *

 

Dejan remains diligent. He thinks that Ibis could toy with him all he wants, but he wouldn’t break. He will play this game, and see how far it will take him. If it means that Dejan will see Ibis in the flesh again, and punch the vacant look off his face.

Henderson visits him again, after Dejan has finished reading _Das Kapital._

“Are you here to test me?” Dejan asks blithely. He’s come to the point of not caring.

“No,” Henderson says. “I’ve come to take you for a haircut. And a shower is in order, too. Plus a change of clothes.”

He says these in fluent-but-atrociously-accented French, and Dejan _doesn’t_ even pretend that he _doesn’t_ understand what Henderson is saying. He couldn’t hide his amusement at Henderson’s near-comical accent, either.

 _You can take a boy out of the North, but you could never take the North out of the boy,_ Dejan thinks.

Dejan hears Henderson punching a few buttons – _the passcode,_ he thinks, before the metal door finally unlocks and opens with a ping. He could feel the cool breeze from the corridor sweeping past his face, before breathing deeply. “I thought I’d never get out of this hellhole,” he says – when he is finally, fully faced with Henderson – without the metal door, without the peephole separating them. Standing face-to-face, Henderson definitely looks more of a conventional top-dog in the MI6 than the Ibis, except for his mumbling enunciation— but what does Dejan know about how spies should behave or sound or look like, apart from what he’s watched on TV?

They begin walking down the lengthy corridors, Dejan tailing after Henderson like a lost puppy. He looks around at his surroundings, concentrating hard as Henderson makes multiple twists and turns in the labyrinth. “Don’t even bother memorizing, Dejan,” Henderson warns – still in French. “These corridor pathways change every day, so don’t waste your time and brain trying to remember your way out.”

Dejan bites his bottom lip glumly.

Eventually he is brought to a shower room – luxurious, given what he has been through for the last few weeks. A new pair of trousers, a white button-up shirt, complete with fresh underwear – awaits him when he finishes. Henderson waits around when a tall, bearded man – with a guileless grin enters the room, and starts speaking to Henderson in Portuguese.

Just when Dejan thinks he’s had a grasp on languages, he’s stumped on this one.

Another man comes in – an elderly barber, who shaves Dejan’s jaw and cuts his hair – with steady hands, despite his age. Dejan looks at his reflection in the mirror when the barber is done – he thinks he looks gaunt, with dark circles around his eyes, prominent cheekbones and ears that stick out even more than before. “If you have stopped admiring yourself in front of the mirror, we have other business to attend to,” Henderson reminds him sternly.

The Portuguese-speaking man tips his head at Dejan, before opening the door for Henderson. Dejan follows in Henderson’s footsteps, and is slightly alarmed when the other man starts following them, too. “Where are we going?” Dejan asks. “And who are you?” he queries to the man walking behind him.

“That’s Alisson,” Henderson replies, too cheerily for Dejan’s tastes. “And we’re going to see the Ibis.”

 

* * *

 

There he is.

_The Ibis._

He is still wearing the same suit from Colorado, the same tie. Which makes Dejan really wonder – where is this place, actually? Have they actually left Colorado? Or are they out of the country altogether?

“How are you enjoying your life out of prison, Dejan?” the Ibis asks, now in Spanish. Unlike Henderson, the Ibis’s accent is softer, subtler. Easier on the ears.  

“I wasn’t supposed to go to prison in the first place, you little fucker,” Dejan replies, in passable Spanish. Two can play at this game.

Beside Dejan, Alisson lets out an audible snort, before covering his mouth.

_Does Alisson understand Spanish as well?_

“Language,” Ibis warns, as he crosses his arms and stretches out on the chair, watching Dejan aloofly.

“Ahem,” Henderson clears his throat. “I see that you’re comfortable around each other already,” he quips. The Ibis glares at Dejan, before frowning at Henderson. “Can we move on to the next programme now, Nightingale?”

_Nightingale?_

_What is with these guys and bird names?_

“Hold on one second,” Dejan raises his arms and shakes his head in confusion. “Nightingale?”

“It’s my call-sign,” Henderson helpfully explains. “ _Nightingale_ ,” he points to himself. “Ibis,” Henderson then points to Ibis, before letting out a deep sigh. “You really haven’t told him your real name, have you?”

Ibis gives Henderson a look that says, ‘ _Duh._ ’

“Dejan,” Henderson says, as if in defeat, “—meet Mohamed Salah, call-sign _Ibis.”_

Alisson leisurely hangs an arm around Dejan’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be your handler, buddy,” he says not unkindly, with a mischievous smirk. “Sometimes we call him Mo for short. Momo if we really want to tease him.”

Ibis – _Mohamed_ – remains as deadpan as ever.

Dejan wishes he could see at least a flicker of emotion in Mo’s expression – _anything_ at all.

 

* * *

 

It turns out that his confinement days are over, but it doesn’t mean that he gets to see Mo any more regularly than he’s wished for.

He gets an upgrade, though – a larger cubicle, a bed, a small table with a built in bookshelf. His repertoire has increased to von Goethe and Santayana, Kant and Eco. He gets meals three times daily now, although still in the form of porridge and MRE. He gets daily copies of _Le Monde_ and _Le Figaro_ , _Frankfurter Allemeine Zeitung_ and _The Guardian_. Judging from the dates of his newspapers, Dejan has been here – wherever _here_ is – for two months.

A surveillance camera is attached to one corner of his room. They don’t even bother hiding the fact that they’re watching him, anymore. Every time Dejan enters the room, he gives a knowing smile towards the camera.

_I hope you enjoy the show, Ibis._

Dejan will be spending his time with Alisson—a Brazilian-born MI6 agent, who will be teaching him martial arts skills and weapons training. Besides sparring with Dejan twice every week, Alisson is also fluent in Italian and Spanish – and Dejan is glad to have someone to interact with, using conversational Spanish.

“How did you learn to speak Italian?”

“I was an agent based in Rome, before I decided to pull out from the field to train new recruits instead.”

“Is that what I am? A recruit? I’ve never signed up for this out of my own will. I was blackmailed by that asshole Ibis.”

Alisson purses his lips. “There’s probably a reason why he did what he did, Dejan.”

Dejan sighs heavily. “Where are we, then? I’m guessing somewhere in Europe— France, probably, but that’s just my gut feeling,” he says.

“I can see why he picked you, of all people, Dejan. You’ve got a good sense. I’m going to let you in a secret— we _are_ in France. I won’t tell you where exactly in France, because that would be too risky.”

Two months – and all Dejan knows so far is he’s in France, doing fuck knows what— and why.

For the next eight hours all he does is train, train, train.

He shoots multiple targets, with a Glock, a Beretta, a Walther, a Browning. He could barely get the hang out of one handgun before Alisson forces him to switch to another. A Smith and Wesson, a Colt, a Daewoo. And they haven’t even moved to rifles yet.

His bones hurt. His muscles ache. His head feels like it is going to explode. He’s never been an athlete, and Alisson is one hundred thousand levels above him. Fierce, but graceful. Gentle, but fatal. Dejan is like a log, stiff and awkward and clumsy – and he doesn’t know why Alisson puts so much faith in him.

Alisson promises that by the end of the month he will know how to use ninety-eight percent of all hand-held weapons in the world. “And you’ll also get to pick-up girls with your French and Spanish in no time at all,” Alisson winks, “—if you persevere and keep using those languages when you speak with me, or Hendo, or Mo.”

“Totally,” Dejan rolls his eyes. “The girls will be all over me, because who could handle a multilingual bad boy, right?”

Alisson makes a worried face. “Don’t let the Ibis hear you say that,” he says – as if he actually fears the Ibis’s wrath, before breaking into a nervous chuckle.

Dejan asks Alisson why he doesn’t have a fancy call-sign, like _Ibis_ or _Nightingale._ “I’m not an active agent or handler anymore, Dejan. I used to have a call-sign, but someone else uses it now.”

“Henderson says he’s Ibis’s boss. I don’t get it—,” Dejan frowns, “—how does the hierarchy work?”

“Henderson—the _Nightingale_ , is part of a triumvirate at the head of the MI6,” Alisson explains. “The other two— are _Falcon_ , who is the chief of the Triumvirate, and _Cormorant_. You’ll meet them soon enough,” he says. “Mo— the _Ibis_ , he’s part of an elite subunit of the Service, termed _Melwood.”_

Alisson pauses dramatically, as if waiting for Dejan to look at him in awe. He doesn’t give Alisson that satisfaction, causing Alisson’s shoulders to slump in utter disappointment. The Brazilian man sighs. “Basically, Melwood agents receive orders _from_ and answers _directly to_ the Triumvirate,” he continues. “In fact, this is a Melwood facility– but I’m just a small piece of the clockwork. _Falcon, Nightingale, Cormorant_ – they are the big guns. Mo is a handler – he recruits and looks after field agents,” Alisson elaborates further. “And you, Dejan – if you pass the final test, you are going to be a Melwood field agent. You will get your own call-sign, too.”

Dejan falls silent, before he asks an unexpected question. “What was _your_ call-sign?”

Alisson doesn’t even bat an eyelash when he says, “Il Pettirosso.”

_The Robin._

 

* * *

 

He returns from his training session with Alisson, three weeks later – back to his room, to find Mo already sitting at his desk, leafing through his copy of _Crime and Punishment_.

It’s been a full month since he last saw Mo. A month ago, Dejan could only understand bits and pieces of French and Spanish. Now, he is relatively more fluent than an average conversationalist. A month ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Glock and a Beretta. Today, he has shot fifteen targets – all dead right in the centre.

A lot of things have changed.

Mo remains the same annoyingly-polite Ibis, whom Dejan met on that night in Denver.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

Dejan has forgotten how painful it is to have a conversation with Mo, sometimes. Not that he ever had a full conversation with him, anyway. “You’ve not showed up in weeks. Makes me wonder if you’re really that keen about recruiting me as a Melwood agent,” Dejan says.

“So you’ve known about Melwood. Great,” Mo snaps the book shut, before standing up briskly. “It’s time for you to hear the rest of the story,” he walks past Dejan, before he stops at the door. “We’re going on a trip,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “Get ready in five.”

 

* * *

 

Dejan couldn’t hide his excitement when Mo takes him down to the basement of the facility, where he has parked his Porsche 911. Instead of a Colorado license plate, it now bears a France registration plate, with the Rhone _départmente_ emblem at the right upper hand corner. Mo hands Dejan a UK passport – bearing his name and photograph.

When they drive out of the basement, it is sunny outside. Dejan can’t remember the last time he has ever been out in the sun – the stark brightness contrasting with the dim lights of the Melwood facility – which is now far behind him, quickly long forgotten. He sits quietly in the passenger seat, squinting at the road, trying to adjust his eyes to the glare of natural sunlight.

He looks at the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. 13:20.

Mo reaches into his suit and pulls out two glasses – before handing a pair to Dejan. “Please stop squinting,” he says to Dejan, as he wears his own pair of glasses, keeping his gaze focused on the road. 

“Where are we going?” Dejan asks, as he looks at the signboards and the streets and the people, the cars that are driving past. “Make an educated guess,” Mo replies drily.

Dejan tries to pinpoint their location – using the signboards, the car plates – he knows he’s in France, but where? Not Paris. He would’ve known. These streets seem more provincial.

He sits up straighter when he realizes that Mo is following the signs to the Saint Exupery Airport.

They’re in Lyon, and Dejan only finds this out on the day he’s leaving town.

At the next red light, Mo plugs his phone into the car sound system. Erykah Badu starts playing – and Dejan itches to ask, ‘Really?’ but wisely decides not to. Then, System of a Down. Edith Piaf. Drake. Mumford and Sons. Ella Fitzgerald. Alicia Keys. A catchy, mellow song in Arabic that he’s never heard of before _._

Dejan couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “Can’t you make up your mind?”

“I’ve got an eclectic taste in music, what can I say?”

“If you’d put 5 Seconds of Summer on, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I think I’ve got them somewhere in my playlist,” Mo nods insouciantly. Dejan’s eyes widen as INXS’s ‘ _Never Tear Us Apart’_ comes along, and Mo starts singing to it, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers to the beat. _Mo’s got a good voice for singing,_ Dejan thinks – but most importantly, how does he change from a completely stoic spy to a carefree man within seconds? And how does Mo even know of the song?

“You’re listening to songs that were released when you were still in your diapers,” Dejan comments in disbelief.

“You’re only three years older than me,” Mo stops humming. “If you want to argue about potty-training, please feel free.”

Dejan bites the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from smiling at that retort.

 

* * *

 

“Your first test,” Mo whispers as they queue at the British Airways check-in counter, “—is to ask for our boarding passes from the woman at the desk – in _French._ ”

By this time, Dejan has already found out that they’re flying to London.

He aces it like a pro. He thinks he might have even flirted with her a bit, because by the end of it she was blushing. He glances at Mo, whose only response is to narrow his eyes at Dejan in a ‘what the fuck are you doing now?’ expression, but says nil else. He continues to watch the exchange with mild interest, until they leave the queue.

“How did I do?” Dejan nudges Mo with his elbow.

“I’d give you a B minus.”

“What? Did you see how she looked at me? I think she was ready to adopt me.”

“You charmed her, yes. But you charmed her with your _looks,_ ” Mo cringes, “—while your French pronunciation remains as atrocious as ever.”

Dejan scrunches his nose. _It couldn’t be as bad as Hendo’s,_ he thinks to himself. “You’re _incorrigible_.”

“I didn’t even know you know that word,” Mo raises an eyebrow.  

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

They reach Heathrow three hours later— and since they didn’t bring extra luggage, they didn’t wait around before taking the Piccadilly Line tube to Leicester Square. Dejan wonders if this is their final stop, before following Mo – who is walking swiftly among the throngs of the London crowd within the tube station, to wait for the Northern Line tube towards Edgware.

“Where are we going?” Dejan hisses in dismay. He’s sweating like a pig, his ears are buzzing. Mo gives him a look that says, ‘You’ll see,’ but doesn’t really satisfy Dejan’s curiosity.

The tube carriages swoosh past them, before halting to a stop. Mo enters and stands at one of the railings. The carriage is full, and Dejan has no choice but to squeeze in, standing close against Mo. Their bodies are aligned, pressed up against each other. Dejan couldn’t help but lean into Mo as the carriage wobbles, accidentally grabbing Mo’s hand when he stumbles. Mo pulls him closer – his hand warm against Dejan’s cool skin; comfortable, despite the tight squeeze of the compartment.

No one notices them.

Dejan looks down at Mo, who is staring up at him innocuously.

And then, the little fucker _smiles_ at him.

Three months of mistrust and utter frustration of not being able to see or speak to Mo directly. Three months, and suddenly they’re shoved in a busy Northern Line tube carriage, pressing into each other’s space. Mo’s head is resting against his chest, and Dejan could smell the fresh shampoo scent on Mo’s hair. He idly wonders if Mo could hear his heartbeat hammering against his ribcage.

Knowing Mo, the fucker probably could.

 

* * *

 

They disembark at Hampstead, where Mo pretends that he hasn’t just been pressed up against Dejan’s body for the last fifteen minutes.

When he steps out of the station, Dejan takes a deep breath. The fresh scent of earth and leaves and rain fills the air— none of the distinct Underground smell, or the metallic scent that he’s always remembered in Lyon, when he was in confinement. He sees people walking down the streets, but they don’t seem as busy as the people at Heathrow, or the Tube stations. A man is walking his dog down the main street, while a lady pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. A little girl eating ice-cream catches Dejan’s gaze. She stares at him in wonder, before smiling at him.

He smiles back.

Mo begins to walk up a slope, where fancy sports cars are parked at the kerbside – huge high-gated bungalows to Dejan’s right and left. The streets away from the Tube Station are quiet, with nobody in sight. Tree branches sway in the direction of the mild breeze, and Dejan couldn’t remember seeing this much _green_ in the pictures that he has seen of London. He’s imagined London to be a Metropolis with black cabs and red buses, of the London Eye and the Buckingham Palace, of the Shard and the Bridges.

Colorado was forever away; a distant memory.

Dejan tries to keep up with Mo with his long strides, walking past the lake in the park. Mo turns left into an unpaved road, leading up to a secluded, vast property. When the house is finally in Dejan’s sight, he gasps.

It is _massive._

It is all heavy bricks and huge windows, red ivy climbing up one part of the walls. The front doors have bronze lion-head knockers on them, but there is another keypad by the door frame— which Dejan assumes is used to enter the passcode for the house.

Mo pushes his sunglasses up his forehead, before punching in the numbers. The loud clicking sound when the door unlocks is utterly satisfying.

“We’re alone here,” Mo says as he dumps his duffel bag on the floor. “If you want to kill me, here’s your chance.”

“What makes you think that I’m going to kill you?”

“You think I don’t know what’s going on in your head when you look at me? You _hate_ me. You told me that just a few hours ago.”

“Doesn’t mean that I _want_ to kill you.”

“Good,” Mo says, before pulling a Magnum out from a drawer next to the mantelpiece— and points it at Dejan. He cocks and uncocks the gun, before carelessly putting it away again. “Get ready in one hour. We’re going running,” he says, looking at his watch, “—at 1830.”

For a second Dejan genuinely believes that Mo was going to shoot him. “That’s plenty of time. What am I going to do until then?” he asks, to hide his initial but waning panic.

Mo throws Dejan his own duffel bag. “Get settled in,” he says. “Shower. Sleep. Eat. Whatever,” he waves Dejan off. “There should be food in the fridge. I made sure of it before we came.”

“What are _you_ going to do?”

“Make sure that you’re not going to run away,” Mo replies drily. “Because if you even try, I swear I _will_ shoot you.”

 

* * *

 

Mo’s bribe to persuade Dejan to stay comes in the form of a pool, a Jacuzzi, a California King bed and a room full of the latest tech for him to play with.

There are fresh towels in his closet, shirts and trousers in his size. Mo really has everything sorted out. After Dejan finished showering, he changes into a fresh pair of pants and t-shirt— and lies idly on his bed, before becoming wary of the fact that there might be surveillance cameras installed in this property, too. He sits up and looks around, up at the ceiling, at the corners of the room, at the bookshelves.

Works of Hardy, Dickens and Eliot line up the first shelf. Avicenna, Ibn Khaldun, Lao Tzu, Mao Zedong in the shelf below it. _Mo really can’t make up his mind,_ Dejan ponders.

Then, he remembers Mo’s threat if he tries to leave.

_Fuck it._

He walks up to the windowsill, where he gets the view of the swimming pool. Dejan is surprised to see Mo sitting by the pool – not in a suit, or a dress-shirt, but a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of khaki-shorts. He’s dipping his feet in the turquoise waters, splashing them – _like a kid,_ Dejan thinks in amusement. His back is turned against the windows, completely oblivious that Dejan is watching him.

_Who’s being watched now?_

 

* * *

 

Dejan runs.

Despite Dejan’s longer legs, Mo has the stronger stamina – and runs faster, while Dejan huffs and puffs behind the younger man.

Mo is already waiting for Dejan at the door when he finally reaches the house. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“Not my fault that you picked me to enter this Melwood bullshit,” Dejan manages to say, as he wheezes breathlessly.

Mo’s expression turns gloomy – his eyes glassy, as he swallows heavily. As if Dejan’s words have triggered the reminiscences of his darkest hours, painful and bitter. “I wouldn’t have picked you without a legitimate reason, Dejan.”

 

* * *

 

At dinner, Mo makes homemade shawarma and falafels, which taste better than any takeaway shit Dejan’s had in his entire life. At the table, Dejan listens intently while Mo speaks.

“There has been a major change in Melwood recently.  Apart from Henderson, the Triumvirate consists of Virgil Van Dijk, the chief – call-sign _Falcon_ , who oversees operations in the West, and Xherdan Shaqiri – call-sign _Cormorant_ , who oversees operations on the Eastern Front,” Mo begins. “Henderson liaises between Shaq and Van Dijk, floating between East and West, making sure shit gets done,” he says.

Dejan nods. “I’ve heard of _Falcon_ and _Cormorant_ before. Alisson told me before.”

And Henderson is the _Nightingale._

Mo explains that Shaqiri only became part of the Triumvirate after a disastrous operation in Kiev, Ukraine. “Four months ago, the _Cormorant_ was a man named Danny Ings— he had been overseeing the Kiev operation. I don’t exactly know what the objectives of the operation were, but scuttlebutt was that they wanted to retrieve important, classified information from the Russians.”

“What do you mean by disastrous? What happened?”

“An agent died, Dejan. The enemies got him, and we never got his body back. His handler – a man called Milner – he was forced to retire and live in hiding. Ingsy committed suicide not long after. And Shaqiri took over from Ingsy as the new Cormorant.”

“I assume you didn’t get the information you wanted, either.”

Mo shakes his head. “Any records of the operation were deleted. All files sealed— until another agent came in contact with them—don’t ask me how, but he tried to pass them to me,” Mo explains. “On the day I was meant to meet him at Victoria Station, he was shot to death at Kings Cross, and the officials didn’t manage to find the murderer,” he sighs. “The question is, who killed him – and what happened to the files now?”

Dejan frowns. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Do you remember _Raven,_ Dejan?” Mo asks.  

 _The Raven._ An anonymous person who has been in touch with Dejan online, asking him to do small favours by hacking into websites to steal encrypted data for the last five years or so. One time _Raven_ asked him about hypothetical trajectories of Russian satellites. Then, he’d asked Dejan to get the mirrored hard-drives of George R R Martin, Anderson Cooper and Nicola Sturgeon. The last contact he had with _Raven_ was probably about four months ago.

Dejan begins to feel uncomfortable in his seat.

“The agent who was shot in Kings Cross— his name is Andrew Robertson,” Mo exhales raggedly. “I was his handler,” he continues softly. “Care to guess what Robbo’s call-sign was?”

He doesn’t have to say it out loud. Mo knows that Dejan _knows._

_The Raven._

Dejan tightly shuts his eyes as if in pain.

 _“_ When Robbo asked you to hack into those websites, you were technically working for the MI6. You were already working for me, for _us_ – even when you’re not realizing it.”

“What do you want me to do now? Replace him?”

“If you pass – if the Triumvirate is happy with your progress, you will become the _Raven_ ,” Mo says. Dejan glares at him incredulously.

“I don’t expect you to be him. It’s just a call-sign, Dejan. I need your expertise in this, to dig deeper into the cause of Robbo’s death. Someone in Melwood is involved, is covering his tracks. Something’s not right about the Kiev operation, about Ingsy’s suicide, about Milly’s sacking. About Robbo’s murder. I just don’t know where to start, and I need _you._ ”

“Why put me through the shit in Lyon, though? If you’d wanted my help, you could have just asked— like normal people!”

“I don’t trust anyone in Melwood, and I can’t do this on my own,” Mo grits his teeth. “And sitting behind computers alone isn’t going to help. We need to work under the radar to find out what happened in Kiev, and what happened to Robbo. To do that, you need to be able to fight, to charm people, to blend in.”

Dejan stands up in fury, towering over Mo with his height, his voice raised. “You framed _me_ for murder so _you_ could get revenge on your friend’s death? How more selfish could you be?”

“Yes, so maybe I was guilty of that. But what were you doing, Dejan? With your life? With your talents?” Mo asks accusatorily. “You could walk out now— I’m not going to stop you. It’s your choice. But think about what you’re going to do, where you want to go. What do _you_ want to do?”

 

* * *

 

For most of his life, Dejan has ceased from depending on other people. In return, he avoids letting people think that they could depend on him too. He remembers school, how he couldn’t fit in no matter how hard he tries— how they used to make fun of his accent and his name.

He remembers how his classes at school bore him, teaching him stuff that he either already knows or doesn’t have to know. His mind moves faster than anyone else’s – he remembers how math class used to bore him to death, not because he wasn’t interested but because it was too fucking slow for him.

And so began his life of truancy and delinquency.

Dejan thinks, if he’d been given another chance, he would have been a much less anti-social person.

He probably wouldn’t have gotten involved with petty crimes.

He probably would be stuck in Colorado in a boring 9-to-5 job, wasting his life away like _normal_ people. Dejan twists his mouth in disgust at the thought.

If things had been different, he wouldn’t have met the Ibis.

And that would have been a total loss.

 

* * *

 

“I will do this,” Dejan says. “Not for you or for Robbo, or Raven, or Andrew. I’m doing this for me.”

The smile on Mo’s lips is sly. Dejan thinks he could easily be asphyxiated by it. “Does the Triumvirate know that you’re doing this?” he asks, to get rid of this strange feeling bubbling inside his gut every single fucking time the Ibis smiles at him.

And lately it’s become more frequent, like the Ibis is no longer holding back on his true self.

 _I prefer him emotionless,_ Dejan muses.

“No one knows. Except you. To Melwood, I recruited you because I wanted someone to replace Robbo as the new Raven. No one knows _why_ I wanted you.”

Dejan clenches his jaw. “You wanted me because of _him._ ”

“I wanted you because of _you,”_ Mo pulls the fronts of his hair in frustration.

“He’s not just an agent— not just a _friend,_ was he?”

Mo smile turns sad— melancholic. “I don’t know what he was, to be honest.”

And Dejan doesn’t know why – but he feels a pang of jealousy in his heart, towards a dead man. And maybe slightly angry as well, because even if he doesn’t know the full details of Mo’s history with Robbo, he _knows_ that there had been no closure to their relationship.

“But now isn’t about him,” Mo adds – his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, unperturbed by the ugly squeaking sound that follows. “It’s about you,” he says, gazing at Dejan intently— making Dejan’s heart sink into the deepest circle of hell. “You don’t just hack the MI6 when you were eleven and expect to get to away with it. With your history – the things that you’ve been doing since you came to the States, we’ve kept tabs on you. Made sure that you never landed in jail, no matter what petty crimes you committed. Robbo’s curious about you, but I think I’m more _intrigued_ by you. I had no reason to interfere with your life – but things have changed so much since Kiev. I could have chosen anyone else in the world to replace Raven. But I chose you.”

“But I’m a nobody.”

“I’m sorry, Dejan. I didn’t think it would be this difficult – choosing a civilian means that I have to prove your worth to Melwood. To the Triumvirate. Everything that you’ve been through so far— it’s all to prove that you’re the right choice as Raven,” Mo says. “I wish I could have made it easier for you. I wish I could have done things differently. I wish I could just talk you into it like a normal person, but that’s not how Melwood operates. Which was why – you were set up to be arrested that day. Which was we doctored the evidence that you stabbed Mr Son. I know you didn’t do it.”

Dejan thinks this is a challenge – to prove that he _can_ make Mo proud.

 

* * *

 

For the next few days, Mo wakes him punctually at 0500 every morning for a run.

Dejan groans every time.

“You have 45 seconds to get ready, Mr Lovren!” Mo hollers from the staircase, and Dejan scrambles out of bed to avoid earning Mo’s wrath.

They go running around the parks at Hampstead Heath, nice and early, when people in the neighbourhood haven’t yet woken up. Dejan trails behind Mo – and looks away sheepishly when he finds himself staring at the younger man’s firm arse.

And Dejan thinks – every morning, as his gaze often plasters on Mo’s back as he leads the run – _I’m not gay,_ Dejan convinces himself – but his dick seems to think otherwise. And he doesn’t even know _why,_ or _how_ , or _what_ Mo has done to him that could ever make Dejan doubt his sexuality.

 _It’s probably the fucked-up things he’s put me through,_ Dejan ruminates. The push-and-pull, the tugging game, the promise that Mo has sincerely given him in that police station in Colorado— only to force him into sensory deprivation in Lyon.

And now they’re alone in these parts of the woods, with the rest of London still sleeping soundly in their beds. Dejan could easily kill Mo and throw his body into one of the Hampstead Heath ponds – no one would notice. In his shorts and t-shirt, Mo looks _small_ – smaller than he seemed that night in Colorado, where he was all smug in his navy three-piece-suit, shiny brogues and haughty smirk.

Dejan wonders where that smirk is now, when all he sees is a despondent, broken man who is shielded from the truth about his close friend’s demise. He wonders what else Mo is hiding behind that vacant stare – a protective mask to shield his despair. 

He wonders if Mo is soft all over as he looks, or if he’s wiry and hard underneath – and Dejan would like to hold Mo again, not in a compressed Underground carriage, but in a place where there’s only him and Mo, away from Melwood’s prying eyes.

A raven squawks in the distance, waking Dejan from his reverie.

 

* * *

 

Their routine is the same every day. It feels like confinement all over again, although Dejan has more freedom – and better food, judging from the breakfast that Mo prepares by himself day after day. But each day he will go running with Mo, before coming back for a shower, then breakfast.

Mo shoves him books in Russian, in Chinese, in Arabic.

Two hundred pages worth of the details of all the countries in the world, in alphabetical order.

“I want you to memorize the flags of each country, and the national anthems. By lunch I want you to be able to sing the Andorran national anthem to me,” Mo says.

“I _really_ hate you,” Dejan replies, before slurping loudly on Mo’s special coffee brew that he wouldn’t be able to find elsewhere.

Mo’s smile is crooked; _beautiful._ “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Dejan butchers the melody of the Andorran national anthem at lunch, but Mo lets him off. “You’ve got the lyrics right, but your pronunciation is still terrible. That’s something we could work on, though,” he tells Dejan.

“Aren’t we supposed to be chasing after the culprit behind Robbo’s death?” Dejan asks, leaning back on his chair. His brows furrow. “What are we still doing here?”

Mo clears the plates and puts them all in the sink, before walking towards Dejan. He leans against the dinner table and crosses his arms. “Before we can do anything, we need to show Melwood that you’re worthy of joining us,” he says, as he gazes down at Dejan. “That takes time. A lot of training. Not just your skills. Not just _here_ ,” Mo points with his finger, at Dejan’s head. “But also _here_ ,” he moves his finger to point at Dejan’s heart.

Dejan itches to grab Mo’s hand – to hold it, just to know what it feels like – but his limbs feel heavy, stuck on the chair’s armrest as he tries to control his breathing. He gulps – and just like that, the moment is over. Mo pulls his hand away and turns his back, before continuing to clear the table.

“I’m taking you to the basement after this,” he says.

Dejan leans forward spontaneously. “What’s in the basement?”

“Early Christmas present,” Mo replies.

“Does it involve me getting laid?” Dejan asks, risking another one of Mo’s stares with his cheeky question.

Mo’s quiet laughter comes as a surprise, and yet it is saccharine to Dejan’s ears.

“It’s _better_ than getting laid,” Mo promises.

 

* * *

 

Dejan doesn’t know what to expect, until Mo switches on the light.

The basement is basically an underground shooting range. Behind Dejan, the walls are filled with shelves of different kinds of rifles and guns, all protected in Perspex cases.

Mo takes out an M40 and a Steyr SSG 69, placing them on the table. He picks up another rifle— “This is a Beretta,” he tells Dejan, before ejecting the rifle’s magazine, loading bullets into the cartridge. He loads the magazine back into the rifle and points it straight at Dejan.

Aghast, Dejan lifts both hands up in the air automatically. “Mo— what?”

Dejan remembers reading that orgasm during sex is termed La Petite Mort, in French. _The Little Death._   When Mo says that his present is better than getting laid, Dejan doesn’t expect for this to happen– that Mo would –

_No._

“Are you going to kill me?” Dejan asks, although he refuses to believe that _this is it_. He feels betrayed; _hurt._ So maybe he hasn’t excelled at the speed that Mo, or the Triumvirate has wanted. Their failed investment in him – was it worth it, in the end?

Mo stares at Dejan blankly, as he holds the rifle steadily – a finger on the trigger.

“Just get it over and done with,” Dejan sighs in defeat, lowering his arms by his sides.

Mo closes his left eye, as if he’s winking – and Dejan could hear the rifle goes off.

He feels the bullet whooshing past his right ear.

Dejan feels like he might wet himself.

He opens his eyes and sees that Mo is still holding the rifle, but pointing the muzzle down to the floor. He’s still in a daze when he feels Mo’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.

“Look there,” Mo points.

Dejan sees what Mo tells him to see. The head of the target in lane four has been shot off cleanly.

“I shot him. Even when you were standing in my way,” Mo tiptoes to whisper into his ear. Dejan turns his head – to look at Mo, the tip of Dejan’s nose brushing against the gentle curls of Mo’s hair. That is how close Mo is.

“I don’t get it,” Dejan whispers back – although he doesn’t know why he’s whispering.

Mo steps away from him, and sets the Beretta on the table— clumping it together with the M40 and the Steyr SSG. “I need you to be able to do that. To get the job done, never mind what distraction you’re faced with.”

Dejan steels his gaze at Mo. “I can do that.”

Mo’s dark eyes bore into his— staring at him silently, lips pursing tightly into a line. As if he’s challenging Dejan to prove it. “Of course you can,” he tells Dejan, before those lips curve up into a smirk.

Dejan misses that smirk.

It’s also slightly disconcerting to Dejan that he suddenly wants to kiss that smirk off Mo’s face.

 

* * *

 

By the time they reach the house after their morning run the next morning, Dejan is soaking wet.

It has only started drizzling two-thirds into their run, but rain really started to pour towards the end— and Dejan is truly soaked to the bones. Mo is dripping wet when he enters the house, before throwing a towel at Dejan to dry himself.

Dejan takes off his shirt, which is clinging obscenely to his skin – and he swears that Mo has been staring at him unabashedly.

 

* * *

 

For the next few days Dejan spends his evenings in the shooting range, familiarising himself with the different types of rifles. He still goes for runs in the morning, studies languages, politics and economics in the afternoon, eats dinner with Mo before going down to the basement.

Mo leaves him to his own most of the time, but sometimes he will check up on Dejan, making sure that his posture is correct, or the way he holds the gun. Dejan shudders every time Mo stands behind him, whenever there is skin contact, whenever he catches Mo’s gaze – and the other man smiles, as if he knows that he’s driving Dejan insane. Dejan thinks he’s like a taut wire, ready to break every time Mo enters his atmosphere – it’s a wonder that Dejan hasn’t snapped yet.

 

* * *

 

Dejan lies restlessly in bed.

He stares up at the ceiling, before rolling over to one side. He lets out a heavy sigh, before replaying his conversation with Mo at dinner, in his mind.

He’s asked Mo if he’d picked the call-sign Ibis by himself, or whether he was assigned to it by someone else.

“Someone gave it to me,” Mo has said. He didn’t elaborate further— and Dejan didn’t think to ask. Instead, he’d said something dumb, like, “It suits you.”

Mo had looked up at him sharply, but Dejan couldn’t seem to shut up afterwards. “I mean, _Ibis,_ brate. You being Egyptian and all, it’s like you’re some sort of God or something,” Dejan has said. “I would believe it if you say you’re Thoth incarnate.”

“Are you drunk, Dejan?” Mo has asked him, a bit flustered by Dejan’s sudden praises.

“Never been more sober.”

The blush on Mo’s cheeks had been unmistakeable.

If Dejan had been brave, he would have leant across the table and kissed Mo.

But he was a coward –

And _sober._

Dejan had retired to his bed early, after his shooting practice. Mo didn’t come to see him at the range. Dejan had felt slightly disappointed – and all he could do then was to imagine Mo standing next to him, his body pressed against Dejan’s side, as he held Dejan’s arms steady, whispering encouragement into his ears.

He didn’t even realize that he was sporting a hard-on until after he’d finished shooting all the targets in the head.

And now, Dejan lies in bed – as his hand sneaks underneath his boxers, trying to nurse his half-hard erection, biting his lower lip as he begins to move his hand up and down. He imagines Mo’s fingers closing on his dick, stroking him— the press of each pad against his balls, entering him, scissoring him open, finding his prostate – and makes him whole.

He thinks about Mo’s mouth, warm and tantalizing—tongue pressing against his base of his cock, tracing the veins, tonguing at his slit. He thinks of Mo humming around his cock, smirking, gazing up into Dejan’s eyes as he does so. He imagines fucking Mo open, thrusting harder, deeper – thinking of the noises that Mo would make, the filthy things that he would say, how he wouldn’t be easily satisfied and demands, “ _Faster,_ ”, “ _Harder,”_ – “ _More.”_

Dejan comes hard just by imagining Mo spread naked in his bed, jacking-off wantonly as Dejan fucks him slow, deep from behind. He doesn’t even bother covering his mouth as he climaxes, as he pants, as he groans and says Mo’s name – multiple times, like a litany.

_Fuck, Mo. Fuck._

_Mo._

_Oh, God._

It is only then that Dejan remembers how this bedroom probably has cameras in it, too.

_Did you enjoy the show, Mo?_

 

* * *

 

Mo doesn’t wake him up at 0500 for their morning run.

Dejan waits. 0530, 0600, 0630.

By 0700, Dejan thinks that there is no point to pretend that he is still asleep. He’s wide awake, but he still feels like shit. He finds Mo in the kitchen, reading _The Guardian_ as he sips his coffee. “Morning, Dejan,” he greets him casually.

If Mo has noticed any change in Dejan, he remains silent about it. Dejan wonders if he knows about what happened last night. Dejan wonders if Mo has watched him, and what he thinks about it.

“You didn’t wake me up for our run,” Dejan says with a serious tone.

“I thought you’d appreciate the lie-in. Give you some time off. You’ve been working hard,” Mo replies.

_Hard._

_Ha._

Dejan clenches his jaw. This is bad.

 _I got it bad for the Ibis,_ he thinks.

“Oh, and another thing,” Mo says, after putting his mug down on the counter. Dejan looks up at Mo with full interest. “What?”

“Today will be your final test,” he says. “Meet me at the basement at noon.”

 

* * *

 

“You do this, you’re through,” Mo says as he hands Dejan an M40 rifle. “What’s my target?”

Mo holds up a Granny Smith apple. “This.”

“What?”

Mo puts it gingerly on his head, carefully flattening his wild curls, before lifting his chin up – trying to balance the fruit like a crown. “You have to shoot it from the top of my head,” he tells Dejan, wide-eyed and honest – like he’s asking Dejan to pass him the salt, like it’s something that he asks Dejan to do every day.

Dejan shrieks and takes one step back. “What level of fuckery is this?”

“ _Melwood_ level of fuckery,” Mo replies indifferently, rolling the apple back into his hand. “You in or you out?”

What Mo is asking – it’s insane. Dejan has practiced with M40s, yes – but on faceless, cardboard targets. Not a tiny apple on the Ibis’s fucking head. Even if he’s done this for a hundred years, he still wouldn’t reach that level of accuracy. “I’m not doing it. I might hurt you. I might blow your head off!” Dejan says, as he pushes the rifle back into Mo’s hands.

“You _will_ do it,” Mo says sternly, “—or the Triumvirate will blow _both_ our heads off.”

Dejan shakes his head. “Are you a sadist or a masochist?”

“Both,” Mo frowns hard at Dejan. “ _Neither_ ,” he says eventually, his expression softening as he reaches up to rearrange the strands of hair that has fallen upon Dejan’s brow. “Doesn’t matter,” he pulls his hand away, when Dejan continues to stare at him unblinkingly. “You have the M40. Just shoot the apple off my head.”

Dejan hesitates— and refuses to move, refuses to do anything but gaze at this man in front of him, who is asking him to do the _impossible._

“Just do it. _Please,_ ” Mo pleads, before pressing the cool metal of the rifle – a dead weight into Dejan’s arms. He walks about one hundred paces away from Dejan, before calmly turning around to face Dejan. After balancing the apple on his head, Mo closes his eyes – accepting the fact that his life is now in Dejan’s hands.

Dejan shakes his head and stares at the rifle blankly. He lifts his arm, aims at the apple on Mo’s head. He’s not a sharpshooter – he has to consider the wind conditions to judge how the bullet is going to cut through the air, and there’s a higher chance of him hitting Mo’s brains than the apple.

He adjusts his aim. He thinks he could shoot the apple from here, but his hands are tremulous. A second turns into two. Three. Four.  Mo’s eyes snap open.

“What are you waiting for?” Mo hollers from his end.

 _Fuck Melwood,_ Dejan thinks.

He puts the rifle on the ground, before striding over to Mo with purpose. Mo’s eyes widen in surprise. “What on earth are you up to now?” he asks grumpily, before Dejan grabs the apple from the top of Mo’s head and throws it to the ground.

“This,” Dejan says, before pressing his lips against Mo’s.

Mo visibly freezes from the initial shock, holding his breath – before Dejan pulls Mo’s waist closer, trying to coax his lips open. Mo is stubborn at first – until he finally relents, and kisses Dejan back. It only lasts a few seconds, before he breaks away – biting his lower lip, and picks the apple from the ground. “Stop playing around, Dejan,” Mo says with a shiver, without even looking at him.

He places the apple back on his head, a red dot in Dejan’s vision.

Dejan returns to his position.

He inhales.

He exhales.

He aims.

He shoots.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is lamb tagine and couscous with baklava for dessert, and Dejan couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something this well-made. Dejan praises Mo for his culinary skills— and the other man plays it down, as always.

Dejan is about to move on to a different topic of conversation, before Mo swallows a gulp of water and sets his glass down. “By the way,” Mo begins, “—congratulations,” he says, with a little glint of pride in his eyes, although he is trying hard not to smile. “ _Falcon_ has given us the green light, given that you’ve passed your test brilliantly.”

Falcon.

 _Virgil Van Dijk,_ Dejan thinks. He wonders when he will meet the rest of the high-and-mighty Triumvirate— to meet Virgil Van Dijk and Xherdan Shaqiri; the Falcon and the Cormorant – since Henderson is the only one that he’s come across so far.

“Welcome to Melwood, Mr Lovren. Or should I call you _Raven_?” Mo asks.

It’s all fine and dandy— Dejan is now an _Agent_ with a capital A – or a _Raven_ with a capital R – but there’s something else still bugging him. “Are you not even going to _acknowledge_ what happened this afternoon?” he asks Mo, instead.

“I _am_ acknowledging what happened this afternoon,” Mo stops munching on his couscous. “You passed your final test, and now you’re a Melwood agent.”

Dejan’s spoon falls to his plate with a loud clang. Why is Mo being so obstinate? “The _kiss,_ Mo,” Dejan says, almost pleading in tone.

“ _Distraction,_ Dejan,” Mo swiftly retorts. He says this with a grave, almost fearful expression that silences Dejan instantaneously. He’s never felt this outright rejected by anyone before, even if it _wasn’t_ an outright rejection. Mo has a point. 

Nobody says a word after that – they continue to stare at each other from opposite sides of the table, each unwilling to back down.

“Cormorant has given us our first mission,” Mo eventually says.

Dejan holds his breath and tries to appear calm. His pulse is skidding through the roof.

“Pack your stuff, _Raven,_ ” Mo tells Dejan. “We’re going to Berlin.”

 

* * *

 

The target, Mo informs him, is a former MI6 officer who is believed to have defected to the Russians. “Cormorant has sent us to terminate him, as he has been feeding British intelligence to our enemies – not only to the Russians but also to the North Koreans,” Mo says.

“What the fuck is he doing in Berlin?”

“Hiding, I suppose,” Mo shrugs.

Dejan watches Mo worriedly. “I know this is our first mission together and all—,” he says, “—but I’m wondering when we’re going to look into— the _other_ mission.”

The mission to gain information about Robbo’s death, about the disastrous Kiev operation.

“Let’s focus on this mission first. We do this right, we gain more trust – the easier it is for us to infiltrate Melwood,” Mo whispers in the darkness.

Dejan returns to studying the headshot of his target. _Adam Lallana, 30 years old._

The intelligence that they’ve received from Cormorant suggests that Adam is currently living at Neukoelln’s Kinderkrankenhaus, an abandoned children’s hospital in Berlin that has since been infested by homeless inhabitants. Which is how Dejan finds himself at the junction where Eschersheimer Straße meets Mariendorfer Weg – wearing an ash grey suit, black Oxfords and a pair of aviators. He carries a DSLR camera around his neck, acting like a tourist trying to get snapshots of graffiti inside the hospital walls.

He sees other tourists, backpackers around the area who are trying to get into the hospital as well– and Dejan blends right in.

“You look really good in that suit, _Raven,_ ” Mo’s tenor resonates through Dejan’s earpiece.

Dejan is thankful that Mo’s camera isn’t high-resolution enough to see the blush creeping up his neck, on his face.

“Target approaching at your 10 o’clock,” Mo says, one minute later. “Fifty metres,” he adds.

Dejan sees him. He wouldn’t have guessed that Adam is a Russian agent— he looks _young_ and harmless— wearing a yellow t-shirt and faded jeans, headphones around his neck, a pair of high-cut trainers.

“Target is at 9 o’clock. Thirty metres.”

Dejan angles his DSLR camera towards Adam, just waiting, waiting for the right time—

“Acquire target at fifteen metres.”

Dejan is ready.

Except—

Adam jumps over a fence to his left just before Dejan could press the shutter – to finish the job, to pull the trigger. He disappears from Dejan’s view altogether.

_Shit._

This is his first mission and he’s already fucked it up. 

“Target escaped,” Dejan tells Mo. “I’m in pursuit,” he says breathlessly, as he breaks into a run in Adam’s direction of travel. “Do you copy?”

“Solid copy,” Mo replies – calm, unfazed.

 _This isn’t part of the plan,_ Dejan thinks, as he tries to locate the little son of a bitch who has slithered away from his grasp. He enters the abandoned hospital building – full of graffiti on its walls, smelling of piss and alcohol, broken bottles and needle sticks lay near the grassy entrance of the dilapidated structure.

“You’re Melwood, aren’t you?” a small voice greets him from behind, in German. Dejan turns around and sees Adam holding up a gun, pointed straight at him. “Don’t deny it. I’m Melwood too. I know an agent when I see one.”

In this light, Adam doesn’t seem as innocent as he looked on the streets of Neukoelln at midday.

“You _were_ Melwood. Then you betrayed us by defecting to the Russians,” Dejan says accusatorily, although he is holding his hands up in the air— in a gesture of surrender.

Adam frowns. “Is that what they’ve been telling you?”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“Is this my reward for trying to save Melwood?” Adam asks, chuckling sardonically as he poses the rhetorical question. “To be labelled as a traitor? You were sent to kill me, then?” he turns to Dejan. “Because you believe that I’m a traitor to my country?”

“Are you trying to persuade me that you’re not?”

Adam snorts wryly. “What’s your call-sign, agent?”

“Raven,” Dejan replies.

Adam takes a sharp breath at the name, his bravado faltering. “You’re the _new_ Raven,” he says with puzzled look– a half-statement, half-question.

Dejan nods warily.

“Is the Ibis with you?” Adam asks, slowly letting his guard down.

“Do you know him?”

“I _don’t_. But I’ve been trying to get through to him. There’s a piece of information that the Ibis _needs_ to know,” Adam says, “—something that your predecessor had wanted to tell him— but _couldn’t_.” Then, he lowers his gun and drops it to the floor— a sign of peace, a sign that he trusts Dejan.

Dejan stares at the gun at Adam’s feet.  “What information?”

“It’s about Kiev.”

 

* * *

 

Dejan, Mo, and Adam are all huddled together, perched on a torn mattress in a graffiti-filled room, still smelling of fresh paint. “This used to be the oncology ward,” Adam says. “Lots of kids with leukaemia died here.”

Mo tilts his head quizzically at the random trivia. “So, what do you have for us, _Starling_?”

Adam furrows his brows when he hears Mo use his old call-sign to address him. “I’m not Starling anymore,” he kicks a pebble away sullenly. “I’m not a Melwood agent anymore.”

“You’re still an agent to me,” Mo says gently – crouching in front of Adam, almost like trying to sooth a crying child. 

Adam sighs in defeat.

And then, he begins.

Adam claims that there is a mole in the MI6, leaking national security matters to the Russians. He is also one of the last few agents who had been loyal to Ingsy— the old Cormorant, before Shaqiri took over Ingsy’s place in the Triumvirate.

Despite having very little idea about the purpose of the Kiev Operation, Adam has begun to piece things together— after gaining intelligence from Russian spies, who were in Ukraine at that time. “They believe that there’s a mole in Melwood, and gave me a USB stick with the details of the Kiev operation— but I couldn’t access it, because it requires a computer that uses Melwood server,” Adam says. “I tried to feed this information to Melwood— to the Triumvirate— via the proper channels, but it seemed like _something_ or _someone_ is purposely trying to block me. I passed the USB stick to Robbo– to _Raven_ , who must have tried to contact you. A few days later, I read about his death on BBC News.”

The shadow on Mo’s face is grim.

“Do you know who the Sanderling is?” Adam asks abruptly.

Dejan shakes his head, feeling utterly confused. Mo nods.

“ _Milly_ ,” Adam clarifies. “Sandering is Milner’s call-sign. He was my handler.”

Dejan remembers _Milly_ – Mo has told him about this man before. The handler who had been sacked from Melwood after his agent died in Kiev, before getting sacked and never to be heard again.

“Then—,” Dejan interrupts, “—are _you_ the agent who was reported to have died in Kiev, when the mission went wrong?”

“No, _no—_ ,” Adam shakes his head fervently. “That was my colleague. Daniel Sturridge,” he explains. “Milly had two agents under his wing— Studge and I.”

Mo narrows his eyes. “Where is Milly now?”

“The last time I heard, he was in Marseille,” Adam replies. “Meanwhile, Ingsy died – of _suicide_ ,” he scoffs, before balling up his fists in anger. He sighs heavily, covering his face with his palms. “His death hit me the hardest,” Adam inhales sharply, before tears start brimming in his kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Milly was my handler— but Ingsy was like a brother to me. He was the reason I became who I am,” Adam says to Mo. “I was so happy for Ingsy when he was promoted to join the Triumvirate, but I should have known that he would be stabbed in the back. We should have pulled out from this shit a long time ago— way before Kiev, way before Ingsy became the Cormorant. I’ve stayed in hiding since then— waiting for someone from Melwood to come find me— and _end_ me.”

Dejan could feel the blood draining away from his face.

In the end, it was Dejan and Mo who were sent by Melwood to kill Adam—led to believe that Adam has defected to the Russians, when in fact he has always been loyal to Melwood.

“And now, here we are,” Mo mutters under his breath. “This is unbelievable.”

Adam purses his lips thoughtfully. “Is Shaqiri the culprit, then? If he's sent you to kill me?”

“Can’t jump to conclusions. He could have just sent out the order based on reports generated by other agents – who in turn could be the mole,” Mo reasons. “We also can assume that the mole has retrieved the USB stick, before any of us could figure out what’s in it.”

“I made another copy,” Adam says, causing Mo to look up at him expectantly. “But like I said, we need to get into a Melwood server to access it,” Adam adds.  

Mo twiddles his thumbs, biting his lower lip as he begins to formulate a plan in his mind. He catches Dejan’s glance— before Dejan asks, “Where’s the nearest Melwood facility in Berlin?”

“The nearest Melwood facility is in _Brandenburg,_ ” Adam replies, before lifting his thumb to his mouth – to bite at his nails. He furrows his brows deeply and stares at the ground— as if it will open up and give him the answers he needs.

Adam shakes his head, before recoiling away from Mo and Dejan like a spring. “I’m not going there – they will _kill_ me.”

Mo crosses his arms, before looking at Dejan again. His chest rises up and down with each breath he takes— and Dejan watches Mo intently.

He doesn’t have to ask. Dejan understands.

 _I will do this for you,_ Dejan thinks.

 

* * *

 

The drive to Brandenburg is silent.

“Did you expect your first mission to take this much of a turn, Dejan?” Mo asks; eyes glued to the road as Dejan sits quietly in the passenger seat. He fiddles with the USB stick Adam has handed to him, tracing the cool edges of the plastic with his thumb.  

“I’m enjoying this twist quite well, thank you,” Dejan replies. “It’s far more interesting than just shooting an innocent man point blank in midday. I get to hack into the Melwood server. What’s not to love?”

“You’re _right_ ,” Mo says. “But you’re also _wrong_.”

Dejan turns his head sharply to look at Mo. “What do you mean?”

“Adam was a Melwood agent. Or _still_ is— depending how you want to look at it. Melwood agents are many things, but _innocent_ isn’t one of them. We’ve done some foul, unctuous shit in the past, Dejan.”

Dejan doesn’t know how to respond to that.

When Mo pulls over to park at the junction where the Brandenburg Melwood facility is located, Dejan stops him before he gets out from the car. “Hold on,” he says, a hand on Mo’s bicep just as Mo is about to turn away.

“What?”

Mo looks at him expectantly; curious. His eyes visibly widen as Dejan leans across from his seat, before kissing Mo fully on the lips. He doesn’t push Dejan away, but he doesn’t respond, either. They stay still, like that – for what feels like minutes.

Mo tastes like coffee and honey all at the same time.  

Dejan tries to deepen the kiss, but Mo wouldn’t let him in.

It takes a while for Mo to extract himself from Dejan’s arms – mostly because Dejan doesn’t want to let him go.

“This is just a _distraction_ ,” Mo whispers – a shudder in his breath, his skin pale in the moonlight.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t get the job done,” Dejan replies impishly – and gives Mo the most charming smile he could muster, before exiting the car.

 

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

They saunter into the facility like it’s an everyday occurrence. Mo and Dejan flash their ID cards to the guards, entering their passwords onto the keypad, their retina scanned. So far, so good.

“We’ve come to confirm that Agent Starling has been successfully _terminated_ ,” Dejan tells the lady at the main desk – in perfect German.

The lady’s eyes twinkle with interest. “Well done, Agent Raven. And you too, Agent Ibis.”

Mo nods at her appreciatively. “We’d like to send word to the Triumvirate using the Melwood secure server, if you don’t mind,” he says with a bright smile.

Dejan couldn’t suppress a smirk when the lady takes them into an office – full of computers with Melwood servers on them.

It’s a goldmine.

 

* * *

 

“Time to work your magic, Mr Lovren.”

“I thought my call-sign is _Raven_ now,” Dejan huffs in faux-fury, rolling his eyes as he plugs Mo’s USB stick into the port.

“You’re still Dejan Lovren to me,” Mo clicks his tongue. “Legendary hacker.”

Dejan grits his teeth to stop his mouth from quirking upwards. “I may be a legendary hacker, but I still can’t figure out what _your_ passwords are.”

The files start loading onto the computer system— before Dejan hits his first obstacle. “As expected. I may have gotten further than Adam has, but even on a Melwood computer, it’s not letting me in,” Dejan tells Mo. “Because I’m not one of the Triumvirate.”

“What are you hiding?” Mo mutters to no one in particular, as he leans in closer towards the computer. Dejan is hyper-aware of Mo’s nearness, and finds it difficult to control his breathing. “Can you get past it, though?”

Dejan’s grin is sharp. “I hacked into the MI6 server once. I can do it again.”

He types furiously on the keyboard, while Mo watches curiously – as he enters different programming codes, using different languages to slip past the secured system. “Fuck,” Dejan mutters when he fails the first time— and Mo studies him, almost with a kind of fondness that tugs at Dejan’s heart. “I’ve never seen you this serious—,” Mo chuckles, “—not even back in London.”

“That was a different kind of challenge. _This—_ ,” Dejan points to the screen, “—this is what I live for.”  

“I’ve always known that you’re some kind of a genius. To know different programming languages, to turn them into your own and using it to your advantage.”

“Was that why you thought I could learn three fucking languages in a week?”

“You’re already fluent in three languages, what’s three more?” Mo gives him a secret smile, before tilting his head slightly when he hears a slight movement behind them. A man just walked past the corridor, but is completely oblivious to what Mo and Dejan are doing.

Mo is covering Dejan’s back – in case anyone notices what they’re doing, they will quietly abandon the facility and leave. Pretend as if nothing has happened – pretend that he’s killed Adam, pretend that they’re just waiting for the Triumvirate’s next mission—

“Look at this,” Dejan says – when he finally hits the jackpot.

Mo frowns as he reads the words that have just appeared on-screen. “ _Anfield_ ,” he murmurs apprehensively.

“Do you know what it means?” Dejan asks.

Mo shakes his head silently. “Open the file,” he urges Dejan.

With baited breath, Dejan clicks the icon.

The information contained in the files isn’t at all what they’ve expected.

 

* * *

 

They meet up with Adam in Kreuzberg, before telling the former Melwood agent what they’ve found out.

From the files in the USB stick, they’ve learnt that The Triumvirate has commenced a covert operation called Anfield. Secret to even the highest ranking Melwood officials, there are only two people outside the Triumvirate who had been aware of Anfield— Ingsy and Milly. The purpose of the operation is to obtain intelligence from Russia, before sharing them with the CIA in the United States.

Adam points to a black-and-white CCTV photograph that Dejan has managed to print out – of a man in torn jeans and sunglasses. “His name is Sergio Ramos,” Mo tells Adam. “A Spaniard.”

“Ramos is the “Anfield” source,” Dejan chirps. “According to the secret records, we’re supposed to believe that Ramos is an Spanish-born Russian agent who has turned against his government, and now is working for Melwood.”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “So this guy, Ramos— he’s been leaking Russian intelligence to Melwood? And the Triumvirate believes everything he says?” He doesn’t sound thrilled – his eyes roams suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

Dejan gives Adam a tiny nod. “We have every reason to believe that our mole has been leaking British intelligence to Ramos, in return.”

“But we don’t know who he is yet,” Mo sighs dejectedly.

Adam holds up another photograph – the interior of an abandoned warehouse. “What is this place?”

“It’s where they regularly meet-up to share information,” Dejan says. “Sometimes Ramos meets all three of them— sometimes just two. But never one-on-one,” he says. “On record, anyway.”

He explains to Adam that the warehouse is somewhere in Edinburgh, “—but there’s no further information to its location than that.”

Silence hangs heavily in the air, before Adam poses the question no one else dares to ask.

“So what the fuck do we do now?” 

“We need to find Milly,” Mo says determinedly. “We need to go to Marseille.”

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Dejan is standing outside the Campus Universitaire de Saint-Jerome, looking at his watch impatiently. When his target appears, he squares his shoulders and walks up to the man to say hello.

That’s what he does, literally. Say hello.

“ _Hello Mr Milner_ ,” Dejan grins wickedly.

The man’s sombre expression turns into shock, before he tries to run away. He bumps into Mo, who taps his shoulder and merely blinks at him silently. The man turns around – struggling to believe that he’s been caught out, fearing that this is it— his life is over now that Melwood has found him, before Adam shows up to calm him down.

“Hello, Milly. Long time no see,” Adam says.

 

* * *

 

James Milner – or the Sanderling, as he was once called in Melwood, invites Dejan, Mo and Adam to his apartment for tea. Relieved that they’re not here to kill him, he becomes visibly more relaxed than when Dejan first saw him. “Do the Triumvirate know what you’re up to?” he asks Adam over a steaming pot of Yorkshire brew.

“No,” Adam says. “In fact, I’m dead to them. These two here—,” he indicates towards Dejan and Mo, “—have murdered me in Berlin a week ago.”

“What are you doing, showing up at my doorstep now?”

“Kiev,” Adam replies ominously. “Anfield,” he adds.

Milly’s expression turns dark as he hears Adam utter those words.

“How did you know about Anfield?”

“How do you think we found you?” Mo asks, before glancing sharply at Milly. He’s trying to hide a smirk. Trying to hide his burgeoning pride at Dejan’s achievements so far. Mo hadn’t been able to track Milly down – but Dejan had managed to do so in less than an-hour, after hacking into Milly’s credit card bills and bank accounts.

Dejan looks away, inadvertently licking his lips as he does so. They’re in the middle of talking about work— about Melwood, about Triumvirate, about catching the mole— and now Mo is making him hard just by that _look._ What sort of fucked-up timing is this?

_Goddamnit._

“So tell me, Milly. How is Anfield related to Kiev?” Adam’s voice takes Dejan back to reality.

Mo lets out an audible sigh when Milly blinks at him, looking for support. “These guys are good,” Mo assures Milly. “Especially this guy,” he tilts his head towards Dejan. “He’s replaced Ingsy as the new Raven,” he adds with a wry smile.

Milly looks up at Dejan, before rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Fine,” he caves in. “Studge, Ingsy and I – we were in Kiev to seek out a Russian agent there. He promised to give us information about a mole— lurking about in Melwood. It was a trap— it was _chaos_. Someone had found out earlier about the meeting, tipped the Russians about the traitor,” he explains. “Studge – he was lynched to death in front of my eyes. I could still remember his voice – when he was tortured to death, and the Russian bastards knew that I was listening.”

Mo’s voice is soft. “Do you believe that there’s a mole in the MI6? In Melwood?”

“If I hadn’t believed it before, I definitely believed it after Kiev. Why do you think I packed up and left? They sacked me, but I know they would kill me if I’d stayed in London.”

Dejan and Mo look at each other, before shrugging at Milly.

“Even while Ingsy was still alive – Van Dijk, Henderson and Shaqiri – have started liaising with a rogue Russian operative— a man called Ramos. Anfield was born. I suppose you already know that Anfield aims to gain intelligence from our Russian friends,” Milly elaborates further, clicking his knuckles. “But Ingsy and I – we don’t trust the information procured through the Anfield operation.”

“Why?” Adam asks.

“Everything felt so easy. It felt— _off._ But we didn’t have any evidence to prove that Anfield is slimy. Until Kiev,” Milly says. “Until Studge proved that there has been a mole in Melwood – but paid the price with his life,” he lowers his gaze, staring at the circular patterns on the carpet. Milly appears wistful. “What else have you found out about Anfield?” he asks.

Mo tells Milly about the Triumvirate’s covert meetings with Ramos in Edinburgh; about the information that has been passed back and forth between Britain, Russia and the United States. “That’s about as far as we know,” Mo says, as he gauges Milly’s reaction.

When Milly stays silent, Mo prods him with a question. “Do you remember _Raven?_ ”

“Robbo?”

“He’s dead, too. Shot. Just a few days after telling me that he had information on Kiev, and wanted to share it with me.”

Milly’s eyelids flutter shut, as if in regret. “I think Robbo died— because he _knows_ who the mole is.”

When Dejan asks Milly who he thinks might be the mole, the ex-handler is diplomatic about his suspects.

“It could be Virgil – he’d flown to Kiev on the day of the operation, although Ingsy was the one in charge,” Milly replies. “It could be Shaq – taking advantage of Ingsy’s apparent suicide to join the Triumvirate. It could be Hendo. It could be _any_ of them.”

“Anyone of the fucking Triumvirate might be the mole,” Dejan murmurs to himself. He side-eyes Mo. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

“Not if we’re careful,” Mo quips.

“There’s something else you should know,” Milly chimes suddenly. He sounds tired, as if he wants to stop talking about it – but he couldn’t. His fists clench and unclench; fingers tremulous around the tea cup he’s holding.

Mo takes the cup away and puts it on the table. “What is it?”

“Melwood thinks that Ramos is a double-agent on our side, giving us high-grade intelligence. He’s not. He’s passing chicken shit, while the Triumvirate is handing out _real_ British intelligence gems to the Russians, without any filter.”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “But Ramos’s intelligence is reliable, though?”

“Enough substance to make the CIA believe that he’s the real thing. Enough to let the US keep sharing information with us,” Milly spits bitterly.

“Meanwhile, our mole – he’s actually passing along _real_ secrets— real _substantive_ material, including US intelligence to the Russians,” Mo surmises. Dejan nods wearily.

“The people who are involved with Anfield think that Ramos is working for us. He’s _not._ He’s been playing us all along, because we got it all fucking backwards,” Dejan realizes, as he continues to think out loud. “The mole— he’s working for the Russians— and Ramos is his handler.”

Adam glances sharply at Milly. “Why didn’t you tell this to anyone earlier?”

“Why do you think, Starling?” Milly exclaims, rubbing the sides of his temples as he closes his eyes – as if he’s having the worst headache of his life. “I value my life— and as long as Van Dijk, Henderson and Shaqiri are still in the Triumvirate, I would never tell Melwood anything. Because I don’t know who to trust.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing now, telling us everything?” Dejan stands up, towering over Milly – threatening him with his height, build and a booming voice.

“Because,” Milly laughs wryly as he looks up at Dejan, “—the moment you found me, I know that I’m already dead.”

 

* * *

 

Mo and Dejan return to Lyon on the same day, leaving Adam and Milly in Marseille – giving them a chance to flee. By the time the plane touches down at Saint-Exupery Airport, it feels as though the events of the last few weeks have never happened.

Walking towards Mo’s Porsche, Dejan tags along uneasily – wondering what will happen to Milly and Adam. Will the Triumvirate find out that Adam is still alive? Will they send for another assassin to kill Milly?

Dejan half-expects Mo to drive him back to the Melwood facility where he had been in solitary confinement for _months._ He is surprised when Mo takes a different turn – going North instead of South on the Boulevard Peripherique, in the opposite direction from where he remembers the facility to be. They cross the Rhone, driving along the river for a few minutes – until Mo pulls over along Quai St-Vincent. From there, they keep walking along the shops and restaurants on the road, until they reach a door on one of the shop-houses – and Mo produces a key to enter.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you use a normal key— instead of those fancy keypads bullshit,” Dejan comments in amusement.

“Famous last words, Dejan,” Mo snorts, before going up a staircase that leads up to apartment 6 –where a keypad awaits them. Mo enters the code on the pad – ‘C-O-R-V-U-S’, Dejan peers, before ushering him into the apartment.

Mo doesn’t follow him.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“I’m next door,” Mo tilts his head, “—in apartment 11.”

“Wait— what?”

“This is your place now. And I’m going to be your neighbour. Hello _, neighbour_ ,” Mo waves emotionlessly. Dejan’s disappointment must have showed on his face, because Mo teases him about it. “Hey, at least this isn’t confinement anymore— you have the whole apartment to yourself!”

“That’s the point,” Dejan huffs. “I thought we’re going to be living together.”

“Uh—,” Mo blinks, “That was never the plan.”

Dejan sighs, before giving Mo a lopsided grin—licking at his own wounds by attempting to sound cheery. “Well. If I need you, I could just ring your bell and crash at your place.”

“Nuh-uh,” Mo shakes his head. “Never will happen.”

Dejan is about to come up with a witty riposte when Mo adds, “The password to this apartment. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Suddenly, Dejan feels like a kid who has been caught cheating in his exams – but Mo isn’t there to punish him. Instead, he tells Dejan to remember it, “—because the screen will prompt you to enter the damned thing if you wish to change the password.”

CORVUS, Dejan thinks. It’s Latin for Raven.

 

* * *

 

When Mo leaves, Dejan feels alone and small in his new surroundings.

It’s a luxurious studio, with varnished doors that are probably made by oak. There is a vast single room painted light grey, with one wall painted in crimson red. The sofa is black. A fully equipped kitchenette, a dining area, multiple closets – _‘To put what?’_ Dejan ponders.

The last time Dejan was in Lyon, his room was not even a quarter of this apartment.

The bathroom is massive, with a wide shower stall. _Two could fit in there_ , Dejan thinks.

His mind immediately wonders about Mo, about what the other man is doing next door— before Dejan shakes the thought away.

_Distraction._

 

* * *

 

Dejan rings Mo’s doorbell on the way to the Saint Jean-Baptiste Cathedral, but there is no answer.

He tries again the next day. He has wanted to ask Mo out for a run.

And the day after that. For dinner.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

By the sixth day, Dejan is starting to get worried.

He feels twitchy— not hearing from anyone, not doing anything. He hasn’t heard from Adam or Milly; not even the Triumvirate. Dejan wonders if there is a new mission for him— and if so, why isn’t Mo here to tell him what it is? Indolence is dangerous, and Dejan could feel himself wasting away.

Which is how he convinces himself that breaking into Mo’s apartment is a legitimate course of action. Dejan stands in front of Mo’s door on the seventh day, staring at Mo’s apartment keypad. What could Mo’s passcode be? Dejan racks his brain – _Raven? Ibis?_ Couldn’t be that easy.

_If I were Mo, what kind of passcode would I put to lock my apartment?_

He types in C-O-R-V-U-S.

The LED lights beep red. It was the wrong answer.

Dejan scratches his head and looks around the corridor sheepishly, before forcing himself to concentrate.

C-O-R-V-I-D-A-E, he types instead.

Wrong again.

One last chance before he completely blows this up with his stupidity.

He could have rung the doorbell and wait like a normal person, but he’s a Melwood agent for a reason. Mo has been avoiding him since Marseille, has been hiding away – and Dejan needs to know if Mo is okay.

Only then did he realize there was an option to switch to an Arabic keypad.

He takes a deep breath.

Dejan keys in: أبو منجل

 The LED light turns green. _Code accepted,_ it says on the screen.

 _Abu Munajil._ The Ibis in Arabic.

 _You’re such a geek, Mo,_ Dejan chuckles under his breath, before exhaling nervously.

He pushes the door open.

 

* * *

 

The layout of Mo’s apartment is similar to Dejan’s except everything is in reverse. The walls are still painted grey, but one wall is painted Navy blue. The sofa is cream. Where Dejan’s table is clear and tidy, there are maps of Iran, Afghanistan, Ukraine, North Korea on Mo’s desk.

Dejan moves to the kitchen – no dishes left to dry on the rack, even the kitchen sink is dry. The bananas on the counter are overripe. He opens the fridge. The milk is out of date.

The apartment looks like it hasn’t been lived in for days.

 

* * *

 

Dejan doesn’t even know how long he’s been lying on the sofa– he must have fallen asleep. He wakes up to the sound of Mo opening the apartment door – not at all surprised to see Dejan lounging on his couch. Mo is wearing a blue varsity jacket, a white shirt underneath. He stares unblinkingly at Dejan, who sits up groggily.

“You don’t seem surprised that I’ve broken into your apartment,” Dejan says— guardedly. He rubs his eyes, squinting at Mo as he slumps down on the sofa beside Dejan.

“I know you’re a smart guy, Dejan. Sooner or later you’d figure out my passcode anyway,” Mo’s lips quirks upwards.

Dejan wants to reach across, wants to tell Mo how much he misses him.  

Wants to hold him forever and never let him go.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, instead. Furious.

It has only dawned on Dejan how _angry_ he is. And that’s the fucking problem. Mo – he crawls under Dejan’s skin – always there, even when he isn’t. Dejan usually hides his worries with a smile, but he couldn’t do that with Mo. He needs to know how Dejan feels.

It’s exhausting— to pretend, when he knows that Mo could read him like a book.

“Aww,” Mo pouts, before the corner of his lips curve upwards. “Miss me that much, huh?”

At this point in time, Dejan doesn’t know whether he wants to punch Mo or kiss him senseless. If Mo doesn’t stop toying with him, he might do both.

“You’re a fucking twat, you know that?”

Mo closes his eyes, before opening them slowly, gazing at Dejan fondly. “That’s why you love me.”

Dejan could feel his heartbeat skip a beat. “You little fucker— stop bullshitting me,” he stutters, fully aware that his cheeks have gone beetroot red.

“I was working,” Mo eventually says. “So what have you been doing while I was away?”

Dejan exhales gruffly. “Oh well— you know, the usual. Picked up some girls. Brought them home. Do you know how long has it been since I got laid? The last boy that I picked up—he gave an amazing blow-job,” he lies through his teeth – just to piss Mo off. The truth is, he has been going around sight-seeing in Lyon, visiting museums and restaurants and cinemas – and the naughtiest thing he’s done each night is jacking off to Mo’s image in his head. “You didn’t see the surveillance camera footage?” he asks Mo.

Mo looks at him quizzically. “What surveillance camera footage?”

“Aren’t there cameras in here? And in London, when we were at the fucking huge mansion?”

Mo bursts out laughing. “Dejan, there are no cameras _anywhere_. I haven’t been watching you since you were in confinement.”

_Shit._

“So you didn’t see the show that I’ve put on for you?”

“I’m not sure if I’d like to see them,” Mo replies furtively.

“Your loss,” Dejan waves nonchalantly, before leaning back on the sofa. “It was a fucking great show,” he says. Mo snorts beside him.

“So tell me,” Dejan tries again, “—where have you been?”

Mo stretches languidly, before yawning and pinches the bridge of his nose. “South Korea,” he says laconically.

Dejan double-takes at Mo’s answer. “What?”

“South Korea,” Mo reiterates, as he turns his head to look at Dejan. There are dark circles around his eyes, Dejan realizes. “ _Busan,_ to be exact,” Mo elaborates.

“What the hell were you doing there?”

Mo purses his lips and gives Dejan a sheepish look.

Dejan inches closer towards Mo. “What happened?”

“I _don’t_ think it’s Shaq, Dejan,” Mo replies. There is an edge in his low tone that sends shivers down Dejan’s spine.

“The mole?”

“It’s _not_ Shaq,” Mo reiterates. “It’s Virgil or Hendo.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dejan learns that Mo has flown to Busan – to demand answers from Shaqiri.

“I told him I knew everything about Anfield,” Mo says, as he pulls up his phone from his pocket. “I filmed everything.”

 

* * *

 

Dejan watches the video, filmed in an empty, dim-light tea-shop. _Shot after hours,_ Dejan thinks. He sees Shaq for the first time – the great Cormorant— and Dejan thinks that he looks _kind,_ if that is even a possible description for the man. He’s a young man, stocky, and not as tall as Henderson or Van Dijk. Mo sits opposite Shaqiri at the table.

“What happened to loyalty, Shaq?” Mo begins, in the video. Dejan shudders listening to Mo’s smooth baritone— like a slithering snake – quietly menacing, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Ingsy recruited you. He found you starving in Kosovo,” Mo growls. “He saved your life— but when the time came to pick sides between him and Virgil, you trampled all over his head,” he scoffs bitterly, before leaning forward, narrowing his eyes at Shaq. “I suppose it makes sense with your experience— you survived because of your ability to change sides, to serve any master.”

The echo of Mo’s voice from the video resonates throughout the apartment. Dejan has goosebumps all over his skin.

Interestingly, video-Shaqiri doesn’t flinch. “What are you on about?” he asks, only mildly annoyed.

Mo smiles sweetly – but his next words are toxic, like poison. “It’s about which _master_ you’ve been serving,” he says. Mo produces the CCTV snapshot of Ramos on the table. “Someone has been delivering British files to this man— _Sergio Ramos_ —,” Mo enunciates the name, “—who is a known Russian agent.”

Shaqiri’s eyes widen, before he stands up in panic and backs away, but Mo grabs his wrist, forcing him to sit back down. Mo reaches inside his suit, and Shaqiri starts to beg. “Please, I don’t deserve this.”

“I _know_ about Anfield, Shaq,” Mo tuts dispassionately, before pulling out the USB stick he has procured from Adam in Berlin. “You’ve been giving out intelligence to our enemies,” he continues acidly—threatening Shaqiri with his deadly stare.

Shaqiri’s breathing is ragged. “Yes, I delivered them. But so did Hendo, so did Virgil.” Shaqiri’s voice is surprisingly steady, but his expression is filled with gnawing terror. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Mo. Moscow thinks Ramos is still working for them, so every now and then we give him the odd file, just to keep his bosses happy.”

“Who gave the initial order to kill Adam?” Mo asks.

“I don’t know – it could be Hendo, or maybe Virgil. I don’t know who!”

“Do you know that Ramos has always been loyal to the Russians?” Mo barks mercilessly. “Do you know that Adam has been innocent all along?”

“No!”

“I know all about your secret source, and I know that one of you has been giving Ramos the crown jewels,” Mo deadpans, before tilting his head ominously. “But _you—_ ,” he hums, “—you’re just the messenger. Running between the mole. And in doing so, you’ve jeopardised the entire country. Probably the entire fucking world, too.”

“I didn’t know!” Shaqiri shrieks, absolute fear in his eyes.

Mo merely shakes his head and pretends to sympathise. “You picked the wrong side. What would the government do if she knows what you’ve done? We could extradite you back – but even then I’m struggling to imagine what the government will do once they get their hands on you, _traitor.”_

Shaqiri starts to cry. “I am loyal, I am loyal!” he says, as he falls to his knees and begs at Mo’s feet – tugging at the hem of Mo’s trousers. “Don’t send me back, please! They will kill me,” Shaqiri begs.

Dejan holds his breath – he actually feels sorry for Shaqiri. And Mo is _cruel_ – the cruellest Dejan has ever seen him act, but he understands that it is what Mo _needs_ to be.

“Give me the address, then,” Mo says coolly. “Where do you meet Ramos?”

 

* * *

 

Mo is right. Shaqiri hasn’t the slightest idea who Ramos really is – and has been acting in Melwood’s best interests, only for it to bite him in the back.

Dejan still has shivers down his spine, long after the video has stopped playing. Seeing Mo the Handler is one thing. Seeing Ibis, the Melwood Agent— is a different thing altogether. If Dejan had been in Shaqiri’s place, he would have pissed his pants the moment Mo opened the conversation with _‘loyalty’._

“Do you believe him?” Dejan asks Mo, after the younger man drops his phone on the table.

“I do,” Mo says, as he produces a scrunched-up paper from inside his fists, and hands it to Dejan.

 _Seafield Way,_ it reads.

The address of the warehouse.

Dejan’s eyes widen in trepidation. “What if it’s a trap?”

“We shall find out, won’t we?”

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Mo contacts Milly—and asks him to call the Lyon office, to imply to Melwood that he has come out of hiding in order to expose Anfield and the mole.

“If the real mole hears any hint of this, he’ll arrange with Ramos to meet at the warehouse, to ask the Russians to kill you,” Mo has said.

Milly has been hesitant, but trusts his fate in Mo’s hands. “So I’m the bait, then? For you to catch the mole at the warehouse?”

“Don’t worry,” Mo reassures him. “I’ve got back-up,” he says—as he gazes straight into Dejan’s eyes. “We won’t let anything happen to you, or Adam.”

“That’s what the Triumvirate told me when they greenlit the Kiev Operation,” Milly sighs. “That nothing will happen to Studge. Look where that got him.”

“Well,” Mo exhales, “—I’m _not_ the Triumvirate.”

Dejan listens to this conversation with interest. He’s heard from Mo of Milly’s leadership, which has disappeared since Studge and Ingsy’s death. Since Milly was forced to leave Melwood and live in hiding. Live in fear.

Maybe, Dejan and Mo could help Milly find his momentum again— if they all survive this mission.

 

* * *

 

The message pings on Dejan’s computer during the early hours of Tuesday morning. He has managed to hack into the Melwood server and linked it with his own personal computer, which means that he doesn’t need to enter a Melwood facility to access Melwood files. Unfortunately, the Triumvirate is clever enough not to send emails or any electronic correspondence out from their computers, and there is no trace at all of Anfield on the system. Ramos and the mole must have communicated by other means— not even telephone conversations that could be tapped. Tracking the mole electronically or digitally is virtually impossible.

‘SANDERLING CLAIMS TO HAVE INFORMATION VITAL TO THE SAFEGUARDING OF THE SERVICE’ – the message reads.

 _Let the games begin,_ Dejan thinks.

 

* * *

 

Edinburgh.

The warm April sun shines upon its streets; the shadow of the Scott Monument falling upon the Princes Street Gardens, dark, tall and gothic in its structure – a stark contrast to the green and the blooming flowers all around it. In the reflection of Mo’s sunglasses, Dejan watches people walking past him at Waverley, joking and smiling, busy with their shopping. Completely oblivious to what is about to happen in the next half-hour or so.

He glances up at the clock on the Balmoral, five minutes ahead of the actual time. Their bus is late.

“Do you think they’ll already be there when we arrive?” Dejan asks.

“We’ll catch them,” Mo promises quietly.

They’ve decided to ditch the fancy car – they need to be as low-key as possible. Which is how they’ve decided on taking the Service 12 Bus straight from Princes Street to Seafield Road. The journey takes them about half-an-hour, before they disembark and walk off the main road into Seafield Way, where the warehouse slowly appears into view. 

It is just like any other ordinary abandoned warehouse. A Vauxhall Astra is parked outside, unguarded. It is not a vehicle that either Mo or Dejan recognizes. “They’re still in there,” Dejan whispers.

They hide behind mountains of scrap metal. “I’ll slip in first,” Mo says— before Dejan grabs his wrist. “Are you an idiot? Who’s the agent here? What if they see you?”

“Watch my six,” Mo says stubbornly. “I’ve done this for longer than you. Before I was a handler, I was a field agent too.”

“It’s dangerous,” Dejan maintains— but Mo squeezes his hand, and looks at him as if to say, _‘Trust me.’_ Dejan tries to plead silently– for Mo to stay put and hide from the danger that awaits them inside. In this light, Mo looks fragile, and Dejan has a strong urge to protect him at all costs. But then he remembers Colorado – how Mo has knocked him over in three moves, or in the video from Busan, of Mo’s confrontation with Shaqiri.

Dejan watches Mo lick his lips.

And when Mo grabs the back of his neck to kiss him, Dejan wonders if Mo is the most dangerous of them all.

 

* * *

 

“If I don’t get out in fifteen minutes, come and get me,” Mo has said.

It’s been fourteen minutes. Dejan can’t sit still.

When his stopwatch hits the fifteen minute mark, Dejan makes his way inside the warehouse.

\--

The warehouse is dark. Silent.

Dejan walks slowly, careful not to let anyone hear his footsteps. The building is full of junk, full of crates and boxes – and he couldn’t see anyone. He makes a turn to the left, before he hears a voice speaking in Spanish. It is not a voice he recognizes.

He slips into the shadows when he hears movement in front of him. In the darkness, he hears footsteps approaching; the male voice appears to be talking into his phone. “The last information we’ve got, he phoned Lyon from a phone booth somewhere in Madrid,” the man says.

Dejan peers through between the crates to take a look at the man.

It is Ramos.

And he’s talking to someone about Milly.

Dejan closes his eyes and wills himself not to panic. He waits for Ramos to leave – and sees Ramos exit the warehouse, before resuming his search for Mo. There has been no hint from Ramos’s actions that he knows about Mo or Dejan’s presence here. So where the hell is Mo?

_And where the fuck is the mole?_

Dejan walks up a set of stairs, before he hears Mo’s voice from one of the rooms. “Give it up. It’s over,” Dejan hears Mo say. A click of a gun.

There is a door about twenty paces in front of Dejan, slightly ajar.

Mo is pointing his gun at someone.

Dejan approaches, before pushing the door wider.

Someone is standing in front of Mo, holding his hands up in surrender.

It’s a familiar, friendly face. Dejan almost wishes it had been someone else.

_Hendo._

 

* * *

 

“You’ve caught me. What are you going to do now? Send me to Moscow? I’ll miss this free world, with its capitalism and liberalism,” Hendo clicks his tongue. That unmistakeable grin still plastered on his face. “Will you do something for me, if you’re really going to send me away? There’s this girl— give her some money for me, and a cover story. There’s a bloke too— slip him a few Euros to shut him up. I don’t want the scandal to be bigger than it already is,” he grins, although a hint of growl is evident in his voice. Even in defeat, Hendo is chatty and sprightly. As if to overcompensate for his usual inability to speak more than three sentences at a time.

Mo trains his gun steadily at Hendo. “I don’t know what they’re going to do with you, Hendo. But I do have a few questions about Robbo. And Studge. And Ingsy. And _Adam._ ”

Hendo’s grin fades instantaneously. He turns defensive. “I didn’t know they were going to torture Studge that way.”

“Milly suffered after Studge’s death,” Mo presses on. “You tricked Virgil into sacking him.”

“I didn’t trick anyone. Virgil saw that Milly was compromising Melwood, compromising Anfield. Shit got really bad after Kiev. Milly had to go,” Hendo shrugs. “I didn’t even have to put any idea in Virgil’s head. He made that decision on his own.”

Mo grits his teeth. “What do you have to say about Robbo, then? Who killed him?”

“Ramos did. Robbo came too close to uncovering me, so he had to go,” Hendo says. “Should have killed you too, when I had the chance. But I couldn’t, because you seemed harmless. I didn’t know you would travel halfway around the world to replace Robbo with this loyal pet of yours, here,” Hendo sneers, as he side-eyes Dejan with sheer contempt. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were trouble,” he tells Dejan. “But— congratulations. I admire your talents. I didn’t smell this trap at all,” Hendo chuckles wryly.

“Enough with your flattery,” Mo grips his gun tighter. “What about Adam? I thought he was one of your closest friends.”

Hendo closes his eyes – before covering his face with his hands. He takes a deep breath – uncomfortable, Dejan thinks – and continues to ignore Mo. But Mo doesn’t back down. “Did Adam come and see you before he left on that Kiev mission?”

The shame in Hendo’s eyes is glaring. “Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Hendo starts fiddling with the hem of his leather jacket, gripping at the heavy material tightly as if his life depends on it.

“What. Did. He. Say?” Mo repeats the question, in a portentously low tone that makes Dejan’s heart drop.

“He tried to warn me about a mole— in Melwood,” Hendo replies – not quite looking at Mo anymore. If he had been arrogant and lackadaisical before, that façade is now being peeled away. Slowly, and gently.

Where there was once shame, now Dejan sees guilt.

“I think deep down Adam knew it was you all along,” Mo deadpans. Trying to dig deeper at that guilt. Trying to shake Hendo from the core.

“I had to pick a side,” Hendo insists, glancing sharply at Mo. “It was an aesthetic choice as much as a moral one. The world has become so fucking— _ugly._ ”

“Tell me—,” Mo smiles, fluttering his eyelids as if he’s trying to seduce Hendo, “—did Moscow ever consider having you take over Melwood? To get rid of the Triumvirate – to become the sole Chief? The Falcon?”

“I’m not their fucking office boy,” Hendo replies, clenching his jaw.

Mo snorts, before putting his gun back in his holster. “What are you then?”

“I’m someone who’s made his mark.”

 

* * *

 

When Dejan meets Virgil Van Dijk for the first time, he could understand why this man is the Falcon. He is not only an imposing figure, but also sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, cunning. He could insult you with a smile and you won’t even know that you’ve been insulted. But even then he has his imperfections. He’s not an omnipotent overlord, and like Shaqiri, he is completely unaware of Hendo’s manipulations.

“He’s always been so pleasant – so ready to do anything,” Virgil says. “I trusted his judgment.”

“Which was how he tricked you and Shaq to believe that Milly was a useless handler, or that Adam is a traitor,” Mo says.

“Or that Ramos is a legitimate intelligence source,” Dejan adds.

“Melwood is compromised, Virgil,” Mo says. “We’ve got to make this right. We’ve got to stop the Anfield operations. We’ve got to restructure Melwood from top to bottom so that Moscow wouldn’t be able to screw us over again.”

“What are you suggesting? Do you want me to step down as Falcon?”

“No,” Mo shakes his head. “But at least get Milly and Adam back on our team. We wouldn’t have been able to capture Hendo if not for their help.”

Van Dijk nods. “And what do you suppose we do with Ramos?”

“We’re on the case,” Dejan assures the Falcon. “What are _you_ going to do with Hendo?” he asks in return.

“Send him back to the hellhole whence he came from,” Van Dijk replies. “Send him back to Moscow.”

 

* * *

 

It is 15 degrees Celsius, the sun blazing through the bright blue Edinburgh sky.

It is the warmest day of the year so far.

At 14.15, Mo and Dejan will step out of the Balmoral Hotel, heading north towards Princes Street, before making the turn right into St Andrew Street.

They will enter the Harvey Nichols building at 14.30, intending to have sushi for lunch at the uppermost floor.

At 14.35, a Spaniard named Sergio Ramos will enter the Royal Bank of Scotland (RBS) office – situated next to the Harvey Nichols building, under the guise of making a business transaction. In fact, he is waiting for Mo and Dejan to exit the Harvey Nichols premises, in order to assassinate them both— a plan agreed with Jordan Henderson two days prior.

At 14.50, Adam Lallana will join Mo and Dejan for lunch, although Ramos will be unaware of this fact.

At 15:00, the Tollcross branch of the Scottish Fire Rescue Service will be informed of a fire alarm that has gone off at the RBS office. Everyone in the building has to evacuate, including Ramos – who has not expected this to occur. Together with hundreds of other people, he has to vacate the building and into the checkpoint, in the middle of St Andrew Square. He tries to leave, but is forced to stay by the well-meaning RBS fire officer.   

At 15:10, the main entrance of the RBS office will explode – blasting shrapnel into its surrounding area. Many people will suffer minor cuts and bruises, but nothing more serious than that.

Unfortunately, there is one casualty.

Sergio Ramos is one of the people injured by shrapnel from the explosion. However, he dies of a bullet from an M40, fired from a building opposite Harvey Nichols and the RBS office, across the packed square.

Dejan leaves after the fire engines arrive.

 

* * *

 

On returning to his hotel room at the Balmoral, Dejan puts down the briefcase containing the parts of his M40, strips his shirt and pants, before heading straight for the showers.

He scrubs at his skin, washes his hair, lathers himself with soap and water – letting the hot water spray all over him, draining his sins away.

His first kill. It was so easy – and it had happened in an instant.

One shot and a man drops dead.

Dejan closes his eyes, before sliding down against the shower wall and sits down in the shower cubicle while the shower sprays still on. He pulls his knees up to his chest, and shudders at the thought of being a killer.

 _It was so easy,_ he thinks.

This is part of his job, now. His idle days of sitting in front of the computer and shooting targets on game consoles are over. Even capturing Henderson didn’t give him this much of a thrill.

But doing a job because Mo has ordered him to—

Dejan’s dick twitches at the thought of Mo. He lowers his hand to his groin, wrapping his hand around it, before stroking in earnest. He doesn’t even realize that someone has knocked on the bathroom door.

“Dejan?”

He’s thought about straightening up, about stopping – but he’s too far gone now. Dejan lets out a moan as the pressure on his cock intensifies, as he increases the speed at which his hand is moving.

“Are you alright in there?”

_Mo._

It’s not helping at all. Not good. Dejan bites his lips to cover his groans, but then he decides to just fuck it. He shuts his eyes tight, rivulets of water dropping down his stiff cock, head hung low as he revels in the pleasure of his own making. His groans become louder. Obscene.

Mo yanks the shower curtains open just in time as Dejan begins to come.

The little fucker doesn’t even budge, nor has the sense to act surprised. Instead, he stands there – with his hand still gripping the damp shower curtains, merely staring at Dejan expressionlessly, as Dejan climaxes underneath the shower sprays.

When Dejan is done, the water from the shower washes away the splattered come on the tiles, on his abdomen. He pants breathlessly as his cock begins to soften.

“I’ve just realized I haven’t really killed anyone on the job, despite the extensive weapons training,” Dejan’s voice rises above the shower. “He doesn’t even have a gun on him, and I shot him.”

“Does it feel good?”

Dejan moves his hand away and lifts up his face to look at Mo. He doesn’t know what Mo is referring to. “It feels _amazing._ ”

Or maybe he does.

Mo turns off the tap and crouches next to Dejan, before trying to get him up on his feet. “Get up, Dejan.”

“I haven’t finished showering yet, you bossy fucker.”

Dejan turns the tap on again. He doesn’t even bother to hide his nakedness. “Get out, Mo. You’re going to get yourself wet,” he says, as the shower sprays begin to fall on Mo, causing his expensive dress shirt to stick to his body. Mo doesn’t move. Instead, he lets out a deep sigh and begins to undo his tie, unbutton his shirt. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Dejan asks.

“I’m taking a shower. With you,” Mo replies unflappably, as he takes his belt off. The trousers and briefs are next to go, before he steps underneath the shower with Dejan again. He lathers shower gel onto his hands before rubbing them on Dejan’s neck, moving down his chest, to his torso.

“Mo—,” Dejan warns, before Mo pulls Dejan’s head down to kiss him fully on the lips, his hands gliding down Dejan’s crotch to cup his balls. Dejan could feel Mo hardening against his thighs, as his own cock begins to stiffen again.

“Don’t—,” Dejan demands, just as Mo pulls away to turn off the water.

“Who’s the bossy fucker now?” Mo asks, lifting a quizzical brow.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Mo growls in annoyance. “Unless you change your mind.”

“Want you,” Dejan squeezes Mo’s ass, “—so bad.”

Dejan pulls away to look at Mo’s face – flushed from the heat of the shower, his untarnished skin wet and glistening. He lets out another groan when Mo wraps his hands around their cocks, before rubbing them together. The friction is so brutally delicious that it makes Dejan go all cross-eyed, hazy with desire.

When he brings their lips together again for another kiss, it tastes like Mo and chocolate and coffee and chlorine, his tongue tracing the edges of Mo’s teeth. Dejan makes a grumbling noise in his throat when Mo tries to move away, although he doesn’t want to let Mo go just yet.

The slippery floor and Dejan’s height really doesn’t make him great friends with gravity. In his struggle to keep Mo close, Dejan manages to lose his footing and stumbles on his ass, pulling Mo on top of him in the process.

His bones hurt like hell, but having Mo naked and straddling his hips pretty much make up for everything.

He could see Mo’s thick, hardened cock more clearly from this vantage point. He lifts his hand to trace at the veins, his mouth watering at the sight, of how it curves slightly to the right. He imagines tasting it, imagines being filled by it, stretching him open. His body quivers at the thought.

Mo lifts his hip up slightly and turns to the right, to reach up for a bottle of lotion. He squirts the pink substance on his hands, and on Dejan’s cock. He starts to jerk Dejan off again, but his expression is still the half-annoyed look he had from a while ago. “I just wanted to have a shower with you. Of course you had to try to kill us both in the process,” Mo mutters in exasperation.

Dejan moans when Mo flicks his wrist, and begins to use his other hand to play with his balls. “You’re such hard work,” Mo complains.

“It all pays off though, in the end,” Dejan manages to say – as he thrusts harder into Mo’s hand.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Mo says lamentingly, but continues to stroke Dejan, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Always nosing around, always driving me nuts.”

Dejan can’t help but let out a filthy grunt as he arches his hip forward, craving more of Mo’s touch. “ _I’m_ driving you nuts? _You’re_ the one driving _me_ nuts,” he bursts. “ _Do this_ , Dejan. _Go there_ , Dejan. Learn three languages in a week. Be an expert marksman using three hundred different kinds of handguns in a month. Don’t fall in love with you even though I’m absolutely crazy about you.”

Mo blinks. “I never told you _not_ to fall in love with me.”

Dejan watches Mo’s expression changes, from one of stubbornness into uncertainty, watches as a drop of water falls from the ends of Mo’s hair onto Dejan’s chest. His quivering lips, as the chilly atmosphere begins to envelop them both.

He takes this chance to claim his victory, as he rolls Mo over and pins him down. “Fuck me,” he whispers, watching Mo’s eyes widen as he says so. He grabs Mo’s hand, still coated in the rose-scented lotion, before urging it between his legs. He presses Mo’s finger against his entrance, before Mo curves his index finger and pushes it in.

Dejan gasps, his eyelids fluttering shut as Mo begins to slide his finger in and out of Dejan. Mo’s mouth falls open, watching as Dejan rises on his knees to fall back again, slowly riding Mo’s finger as if it is his cock.

Mo slips another finger, causing Dejan’s toes to curl – “Oh yes, fuck,” he pants, his head lolling back when Mo adds another. Dejan could imagine that it’s Mo’s cock fucking him senseless, long and thick, pressing against his prostate. His own cock begins to leak at the thought of Mo slamming hard into him, begging Dejan to come for Mo, his balls slapping against Dejan’s ass.

Dejan grunts even harder when Mo’s other hand – the one not fucking him – is now wrapping his cock, stroking him again – but it doesn’t take much for him to come again, not with the sensory overload that is going. His come splatters all over Mo’s stomach, but Mo’s other hand hasn’t stopped fucking him, hasn’t stopped stretching him open. He bats Mo’s hand away, before wrapping his own hand around Mo’s cock, causing the younger man to writhe beneath him.

Mo thrusts into Dejan’s hand purposefully – _wantonly,_ and Dejan will never forget the sounds that he’s making – the low grunts, the way he bites his lower lips to stop himself from moaning loudly. “Let go,” Dejan says. “Let go, Mo. Fuck, you should look at yourself right now,” Dejan rambles. “You’re so fucking hot,” he says, as Mo continues to fuck him with his fingers.

There’s a lot going on, and Dejan can’t remember the last time he was this turned on.

“Come for me, Mo,” Dejan says. “C’mon, Mo. Let me see you come.”

Mo does as he’s told – coming all over Dejan’s hand, crying out as he does so—before breaking into laughter that reverberates throughout the bathroom.

Dejan stares at him as if he’s gone mad. “What’s so funny?”

Mo reaches up to run his fingers in Dejan’s damp hair— a genuine, blissful, happy smile on his lips. Dejan has never seen Mo look this radiant – this _beautiful._

“I think I’ve just followed your orders, for a change,” Mo says.

Dejan laughs too, and when he leans down to steal another kiss from Mo, he still could feel the other man’s smile against his lips.

 

* * *

 

_Epilogue_

 

The man in the khaki uniform has been incarcerated for about one week, pending deportation to Russia. He is standing in the courtyard, feeling the warmth of the sun against his face. He watches the birds fly across the sky, and wishes he could be one of them. _Not long now_ , he thinks. 

He used to fly high – but it seems that he must have flown too close to the sun, for his wings have melted, leading to his fall.

Doesn’t matter. He’ll rise again, soon. This isn’t the end.

He lowers his gaze – and he realizes that someone is watching him, through the mesh wire. _Someone has come to visit me,_ he thinks. He recognizes the man – from a time that seems so long ago. Someone whom he once loved. He remembers sending the man to his death sentence— but the man is still alive, and now hell-bent on vengeance.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

The man raises his rifle, now.

Hendo doesn’t move.

Adam aims.

Hendo smiles.

 _I am the Nightingale,_ he thinks. _‘Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!’_

Adam shoots.

_Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well_

_As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf._

Hendo drops to the ground, lifeless.

 

\--

 

“Thanks for everything, Jords,” Adam whispers to himself, before putting his rifle away. “But enough is enough.”

 By the time the ambulance came, it will be like Adam was never there.

 

* * *

 

end

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem excerpt at the beginning of the fic is from 'The Ballad of East and West' by Rudyard Kipling. 
> 
> The poem Hendo quoted was of course, 'Ode to a Nightingale' by John Keats.
> 
> Am I sorry for the ending? Find me tomorrow and ask me again. 
> 
> Squint and you will miss the Robbo/Mo - I love them so much!
> 
> now with a [spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/64wX27lfEExsrVBiJ28A4R?si=qesvKkBgQhy73-Mxf36UnQ)


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